It's a tattered old carpet. It lays in the hallway between three bedrooms. Since the day we first moved into the house – 23 years ago – it's been there. The rug was there through the birth of three more children. The rug was there when one moved out. It was there through chilly winter mornings and hot summer days. It was there to feel the patter of children's feet turn into the solid step of an adult. It was there during long midnight pow-wows in the hallway between siblings.
The
blue rug was still here this year. Slowly, the bedrooms emptied out.
Instead of five children living at home, there are two. One gets
married. One moves several states away. Another one moves across the
ocean.
Late-night
hallways chats turn into hastily typed Facebook messages.
A home
that once rang with boisterous laughter and mischievous plans turns
quiet.
It
still offers the same sense of security and comfort – but suddenly
changed.
I am
the youngest. While I haven't been here since the beginning, I have
never known another kind of normal.
Yet
here I am – cleaning out the bedroom of one of my best friends –
my sister. Reminiscing of Christmas mornings and silly songs and
tear-jerking discussions.
In a
way, it feels morbid to see her room so empty. It's another reminder
that I won't see her again for two years.
I go
back to my room. It's my brother's old room. I remember sitting on
the floor years ago and discussing life plans with him – who he
would marry and what he would be. He's married now to the person he
swore that night he wouldn't marry. I gained a sister, but they've
moved away.
My
mother steps into my room and quietly speaks the words we all knew
were coming. “Can you help me pull up the rug?”.
It's a
tattered old carpet. It's an awful faded, dark blue. It deserves
nothing better than the garbage can, quite honestly.
But I
step out onto that rug – that memorial of memories – and for an
instant, children's laughter rings out once again. I can hear
spontaneous prayer meetings and yes, even argumentative and unkind
words. I hear, once again, the harmony of voices as we sang
together. I see deep, raw emotion laid out between sisters as we
share heartaches and trials.
It
takes me a while to collect my thoughts. It takes a long talk between
mother and daughter – sitting out on that old, blue carpet.
Memories
may have been made on that blue rug, but they won't be thrown away
with the rug.
Memories
are made to be cherished.
I see a
beautiful wood floor beneath the carpet – just waiting to be
unveiled.
And
perhaps this is the way it is with life. How can I hang onto
something so ugly and tattered just because I am unwilling to let go?
Beneath
that blue rug of past memories, there is a wood floor. And maybe,
just maybe, that wood floor is waiting to be covered in new memories.
Maybe
this wood floor will be there to hear the homecoming of a daughter
across the sea. Maybe this floor will be here through weddings and
grandchildren. Maybe a wood floor can become a symbol of change to
me. Change is hard, but change is not bad.
And so
maybe it's time to say goodbye to the old blue rug.
