The Diamond She Kept for Herself
Magenta to the four corners,
one diamond set in the middle like a ring,
orange at its centre.
She was not making it for anyone else.
Every Boujad weaver sold rugs, and every so often she made one that was not for sale. You can tell them: they are bolder. This one is magenta edge to edge, a colour that takes nerve, with a single great diamond in the centre drawn in orange and violet and a scatter of small shapes around it like things she thought of while she worked. Nothing is symmetrical. Everything is sure. It was knotted around 1980 in a town where the walls are pink and the dust is pink and the evening is pink, and it is pinker than all of them.
Forty years have softened the magenta towards rose in the places the sun found it and left the orange bright. The pile is low and the rug lies flat as a canvas. It is a painting for a floor, and it wants a room that is otherwise white and brave enough to let it talk.
Handwoven rugs grow in beauty, memory, and value with every passing year.






