It was always there, in the brightest corner of the house, the window. So magestic and impressive as if belonging to the royalty. My grandmother never wanted to get ride of it, even when my mother insisted on changing decoration, but it was the favorite cloth object of my grandmother. I used to hide inside all covered while my mother looked all around the house for me at dinner time. I still remember when the first washing machine arrived home. My mother and grandmother debated to wash it, but it was so big that it didnt fit in the washer and all the cleaning had to be done at hand. That red velvet curtain is the silent witness of the house.
