“A school is a tapiz,” the lady principal told the gymnasium.
Tío’s wife had been too modern to weave, but his abuela did. In the winter, she produced brilliantly colored shawls on a small hand loom that she strung between a ceiling hook on one end and a belt around her waist on the other. In the summers, she worked on larger, more muted pieces on the big wooden frame that her sons set up under the roof behind the house. Many houses in the village had one of his abuela’s rugs to warm the floor. Some of them were even sold in the city, for good money.
That was before, of course. She was dead now, along with the rest of the village. The only weaving done under her roof was by the spiders.