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 its 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,
"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.”