Skill is found not in the hands of the labourer or craftsman, but in the details of the end product. He turns it over in his own hands, and notes the interlocking weave of linen and fine strands of gold.
It’s the product that proves the skill of its maker, and here, the skill is so palpable that it’s been written into every surface and layer, even though the layers can’t be peeled back anymore.
There’s a kindness; a fondness of attachment that is rarely found yet refuses to leave, even if the product lasts thousands of years and is passed down from generation to generation. So he doesn’t hesitate to touch it or run rough hands over it, knowing that there’s one thing that won’t change. It makes him feel safe in a world where safety can never be guaranteed; only given as a gift.
The gift is proof of its giver, and all he can do is humbly accept, kneeling with his head down and arms outstretched as if clouds can suddenly be thick enough to be held within his hands.