Elena's dilemma | A struggling Miami artist finds her inspiration in a $1 bargain painting

“Who on earth would buy this?” I thought while rummaging through a stack of old paintings.

I worked in this thrift store myself as a cashier for the last three months in a desperate attempt to make rent money.

That night, I was on my way home at the end of my shift, and I got the urge to go to the home goods corner in the back before heading for the door.

Of course, I had no business buying anything because I could be homeless soon. I was in a lot of money trouble and hated it, yet something compelled me to investigate further one artwork item that was dusting next to the rickety sofa.

I picked the painted cardboard up and looked at it closely. It was a watercolor painting of a pear tree. Bright yellow pears gleamed off the paper like light bulbs. Emerald green foliage bathed in golden sunshine.

In my native Russia, my grandmother had a pear tree in her garden. I went to see her every summer until I moved to Moscow to attend the Academy of Art.

The recollections battered my mind like a blizzard. The crowded rental flat in Moscow. The pungent odors of oil paints mixed with the smell of boiling cabbage in the common kitchen. The one-room I shared with five other female art students. My boyfriend dumping me when he made my best friend pregnant.

Cold winter winds. Steel gray skies. Me walking from the subway to the studio. Pencils tapping on paper as the full class of students draw in silence. The handsome art professor. I had a crush on him. My favorite green cardigan with frayed sleeves.

My struggles after graduation. The critics dismissing my art, calling it "lightweight, decorative and garbage." My depression and blues. And how naive I was thinking that my life would change dramatically for the better if I could only move to the US.

When I did finally moved, my life changed, indeed. Dramatically. On my weekends — this job at the thrift store. My weekday job — cleaning the Metrorail. Still barely scraping for my rent. Sharing my studio flat in Little Havana with roaches.

“Welcome to paradise,” I said to myself, still holding the pear tree painting. I couldn't put it down. My heart was pounding, as I carried it to the checkout.

My wrinkled-faced co-worker in a blue apron took the painting from me and scanned it.“Un dólar. Hermosa Pintura” ($1. Beautiful Painting), she said cheerfully and smiled.

We called her Cuban grandma. Her English was minimal. Yet, her grins were large and warm, as if we were her own grandkids.

My Russian grandma died in my arms a few years ago. Right before I left for the US. I sat by her bed and held her hand. It was feather-light. The fragrance of pear blossoms wafted through the open windows. It was in May. She was 97.

Her tiny lakeside home was now unoccupied. Nobody wanted to live in the deep Russian woods. Not my sister. Not her children. And me? I am farther than any one of them.

“Go far away,” grandma used to say, “you belong to the world.”

Maybe that’s what she wanted to do herself. Was I fulfilling her dream?

My grandma — a peasant girl born at the beginning of the 1900s. She was given by her family away at the age of 16 to my grandpa to be his wife. Just like that. No Tinder dating, not much of a romance either.

They somehow managed to stick together until the very end. He was the first to pass away. She died a few years later.

Holding the pear painting under my arm, I stepped out of the store. Taking a deep breath, I inhaled sweet, balmy Miami air.

No snowflakes here, I smiled. Just the sky filled with glimmering stars overhead. Suddenly everything felt right.

I strolled over to my flat on Calle Ocho, where I had been residing for the last six months, and from which I could be evicted next month, if short on rent money. That didn't matter right now.

Now, I had a burning desire to paint. As if the pear tree was reminding me that life is too short for us all.

The next day, I bought new brushes and paints at a tiny art supply store near the intersection of 27 Avenue. I found an art studio in Miami Riverside, and shed my unhappy old life like an ill-fitting winter coat.

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Dear Readers, thank you for reading! I write mostly about love and meaning of life. Feel free to share stories with your loved ones. I also read my writing at public events as a professional performer. Special Thanks to Pam Mayer — my tireless friend, editor, and collaborator.