Where the Kettle Always Sat
One corner nearer the fire than the rest.
The kettle, the grandmother, the cat.
Forty winters of the same three
and the red went to brick where they sat.
Every mountain house has a corner that is warmer than the others, and in this one the rug ran from the door to that corner, so that whoever came in from the snow walked its whole length to reach the fire. The kettle sat there. The oldest woman sat there with it, her back to the wall, and anyone wanting tea or advice came and knelt on the red. You can read all of it in the wool if you know how to look: the pile brushed closest where the knees went, the red gone to brick where the hearth's heat reached it, the far end still a shade deeper because nobody lingered by the door.
The pile is low now, a finger's width, and the rug lies flat and quiet the way old things do. It has moved to a long dining room with a plank table and black chairs, where it runs under the whole length of the meal and nobody has to be told which end is the warm one.
Handwoven rugs grow in beauty, memory, and value with every passing year.