Solomon’s Carpet

This quarter—or perhaps eighth—of a carpet pulls me miles away each time. This little rug becomes a breeze that tries to carry me from here to there, but the place of those three or six thousand empty chairs where the woman in this photo might sit and travel is vacant. Here, with no sign of Solomon’s feast, the rug has fallen from the sky and now rests on the ground, here and now. Outside this fallen carpet, there is a basket, a basin, a tray, and perhaps a dish of food. The tree trunk on the left is dry and crooked, acting as a shelter. The window of the house behind lacks glass; plastic sheeting blocks the cold wind or insects in the heat. The pink walls colored like the face, adorn the picture and draw me toward the rusty hue of the drainpipe. The rust color wants to pull me underground, but the green of the sandals on the stones holds me back to see this woman and this house—how, outside the room, she has taken off her sandals so the floor doesn’t get dirty; how she placed the cigarette outside the room or the house, on the floor, just at the edge of the carpet, unlit. She sits composed and adorned, hands clasped, facing the camera with dignity. Faded nail polish draws my eyes to the scars on her hands. I wish Solomon’s rug could carry her miles away—to somewhere with a room, a chair, a house, warmth or coolness. But sadly, this photograph, with all its reality, sits her on the cold ground right here, facing me.