On the morning of the festival a painter sets down her brushes and sits with a basket of marigolds and a length of thread. She strings them one by one, and as the yellow gathers in her lap she finds herself thinking of a face she has only ever painted.
Cobalt loops through the gold of this rug the way thread winds through flowers, crossing and recrossing, and wherever two lines meet a face looks out. Where the blue thins it blushes violet, like a petal pressed too long between careful fingers. A garland is made to be given. This one has not yet found who it is for.
