As a child I often visited the crowded apartment of Haydee and Orencio Miras and their children with my uncle. There was always a big pot of food on the stove in the kitchen, near the sewing machine where Haydee's elderly mother stitched.
In the living room adults played guitars and sang, while we kids played among the piles of coats on the bed in the bedroom. The sewing machine was the hearth and heart of that wonderful home.
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