Generations: A Tapestry

It’s just an old rug
with warp, weft, and disintegrating pile.
Woven by gnarled hands of angora steeped
in vats of steaming mordant.
Carried on backs across the Kara Kum,
delivered to my ancestor’s door,
here to our heirloom house, slowly decaying
through the course of generations.

The boots and kitten heels trod familiar trails
over the terrain knotted into the rug,
Worn goat paths between settee and chaise.
A red wine stain commemorates the wedding
of Aunt Lydia and Uncle Otto.
Here the remains of a toast by long dead Sumeria
on the occasion of her first sip of champagne
at age 16 on New Year’s Eve 1919.

Which of these marks were left by my feet?
Which are my great-grandmother’s?
Her 84 years from birth to death
were spent on this rug,
wearing down the angora pile as she lived,
a wedding night romp through Persia here,
gave birth on the Tigris there, and
died with the Zagros imprinted on her face.