My sewing box is a little faded now and the Velcro strap that once held it shut no longer sticks. But with a little creativity, it still holds everything I need. That and a lot of heart.

I was 8 or 9 when my Nina taught me how to sew, not on a machine, by hand. My younger sister Judi and I were spending the weekend at her and Nino’s house, something we—their pseudo kids—got to do once a year.

Nino and Nina are Spanish for Godparents. We love them both dearly, but Nina took the lead regarding our visits. She planned everything weeks in advance and mailed us handwritten itineraries with choices of restaurants, breakfasts and desserts we wanted her to make and which outings and activities we’d prefer on what days. We’d arrive by Greyhound (a 1.5 hour bus trip from Nogales to Tucson) and the

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