Jorge Luis Borges once wrote that the “thousand” of The Thousand and One Nights implied “endless nights, countless nights.” So a thousand and one, he concluded, “is adding one to infinity.” What then of Fatimeh and her carpets? I wondered. Were her fingers weaving anything less than infinity? I had watched her create gardens of Paradise with plump roses, budding leaves, running deer and water vases. From the first winter frost through the melting of snows and the sudden burst of spring, each day she wove. She knew that sooner or later her carpet would warm someone’s feet, brighten a room and
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