It inhabited their carefully curated house,
for 52 years.
And now it’s mine.
I seized it from the “to sell” pile
from eager downsizers and estate salesmen
during my dad’s transition to senior living.
It took work and money to get it home.
A man with a van–
Loud, beefy, adept.
Expensive.
Slinging it over his shoulder,
like it was nothing.
Leaving it for me to manhandle.
This carpet goes so well with my things–
my grandmother’s mahogany chest,
the Danish-design desk from an ex-lover,
Boho end tables from a closing sale.
Deep red and turquoise accent walls.
Somehow, it works,
but it feels wrong.
I am unsettled by this carpet,
How did I not notice it before?
a discolored patch, from wear and tear
perhaps from me traipsing across it
during my weekly visits,
in the sad years.
I traversed this carpet countless times,
From the front door to his lounge chair,
where he sat,
slouched over, mouth agape,
fighting sleep for me,
mustering a greeting.
Thank you for coming.
I imagine him now in his new place,
plopped down in a leatherette recliner,
parked on a speckled linoleum floor.
I wonder if he ever dreams of his old house,
full of real plants and soft lights,
and his Persian carpet,
now lying, displaced, in my home.
Author: Ida Dupont, WritingWaves, February 2026