All over Rwanda, you'll find them. The weaving women. The basket makers.
The quiet hands, the patient hands, the weaving hands.
In and out and in out. And in and out again.
And when those hands are finished, things of beauty in their place...
A week or two (or more) for a single basket.
A precious thing. A valued thing. A filled-with-memories thing.
Domed like a tent, like a teepee, like a hut.
Like a home.
A reminder that the mind is a many colored thing.
Gossamer thin but oh so strong...these women, ahem, these baskets...
She bought a bag. A big one.
And she filled it up with the baskets and their memories.
And so the baskets came back to live with her. In Marrakech.
As a remembrance of things past.
And her comparative luckiness.
