The Carpet
The family room floor is wrong. I’m standing in my childhood home in the central Ohio suburbs. I bought it last year when I saw the For Sale sign in the brown weed-choked yard.
Last month, I picked out Ribbon Oak Matte Ceramic tile at Floor & Decor on Frank Road for the family room. I spent three days tearing out the current brown carpet my dad installed decades ago. Cut and laid the tile with precision. Admired my work and the effort.
But today, I see the ugly original shag carpet that my dad removed in the late 1970s. As if the yellow strands sprouted out of the floor like August sweet corn.
The shag carpet has thick yellow strands, rough and stubborn, half an inch high. When I press my palm into it, the fibers don’t spring back. It still smells faintly sour, as if some kid named Joey spilled his soup long ago and never cleaned it up.
My eight-year-old son Timmy walks in. “Did the carpet grow overnight or something, Dad?” I pause. Maybe it did. Houses have long memories.
A day …
