The whole point of tapestry is to capture the story, weaving in colors of time and context. To be hung on a wall, maybe inside a museum, seen by many. If the sources of light are managed, the colors can last for thousands of years, preserving the tales it tells.
A lifelong patron of the arts, you’ve made unique contributions. As you sit on the floor unraveling a priceless piece of art, you’re forced to reconsider that particular commitment to the arts. Security guards run in, you nearly get tasered. They settle for a fine, but it’s a hefty one.
Best purchase you’ve made in a long time, maybe ever.
As the tapestry unraveled in your hands, the past was not undone, the events remain as they ever were. But the tales told now, the colors used here, they are colors that didn’t exist then. They are the deep shades, gem colors of mercy, witnessing, and compassion. Not the blind kind. The seeing kind.
The hand that once covered your mouth so you could not scream, the other that choked you so you could not breathe, the knife held to your gut to keep you compliant and in place, the ropes that tied your hands and feet so you could not fight back or run. They are all reunited with the other side of their coin.
The rivers of blood and truth run together and you dance on its banks.