Monday, April 10, 2017

My Grandmother, the Weaver of Rugs

Photo Credit: maggy le saux Flickr via Compfight cc

My Grandmother, the Weaver of Rugs

She knew spells.
She talked to the stars and
they listened.
That's how she took my fever away.
Her fingers, like talons,
moving swiftly.
The red rug, my dowry, she said.
When she thought no one was watching,
she cried to herself about something.
Then she took off her scarf.
Her braided hair fell to the floor, still copper red.
I don't remember well what she looked like,
but sometimes I catch a glimpse of her in the mirror.
We are the same age now.
I have never tried to weave a rug or cast a spell,
but blood is thicker than water
and some things are passed on
as dowry.

GloPoWriMo Day 10

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