That Old Rug

 

My family adopted that old rug when I was five.
Back then, he and I were fellow dreamers.
Always up for my sporadic adventures.
Always willing to fly me away,
To a place that usually involved lava.

My family took pictures during our vacations.
That old rug had memories of his own.
Like a toddler with unwashed cheeks,
Harboring stains and scars once loathed,
Now looked upon with memories of better days.

My family grew cold one Christmas Eve.
That old rug was a warm friend for that lonely boy,
The lonely boy who didn't want to commit to pajamas. Or socks.
After long trips away from home, it was always a charming reminder to my toes.
Speaking softly to me, "Welcome home."

My family didn't have much, but mom liked to dream.
We’d pretended we were rich, like we'd pretend during Halloween.
That old rug bore the worst of it.
The exquisite embroidery humbly placed under our feet,
Whose shoulders we stood upon to impress the Jones's.

My family adopted a new rug when I went to college.
That old rug was worn and ragged, so Pa rolled it up.
"Was he happy?" I thought, embracing my old friend in the end.
The smell of spring picnics filled my nostrils one last time.
I think he was.