June 9, 2022

Shevitsa

But only the worn carpets heard me, and they had no pity. When it wasn’t too cold, I took my pillow and wool blanket from the too-narrow bench and curled up on the carpet. I traced my fingers over the sun-bleached threads. Their patterns were familiar—the same triangles and rhombuses used in embroidery. The carpets held stories of engagements and weddings, children and grandchildren. Around the edges were the zigzags of protection. 
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