It’s just a small cloth bag with a zipper that no longer zips. Teal, gray-blue, blue-green—even cranberry—small chevrons in white. A navy rhombus holds a smaller red rhombus, clean lines, sharp angles in space.

You know it’s Guatemalan because you checked the tag, a small white label inside, and the texture, coarse, a tight cotton weave. It’s sturdy and lovely, like the woman, you imagine, who made it, hands rough from hard work and sun. Her eyes lined at their sides, wrinkles reach out like moon rays, hair long, and pulled back from her face. You laugh—a bit unkindly—at your lazy imagination, so eager to place people in an easy, happy box.

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