The turquoise rug

The rug, a kind of turquoise in colour is soft and flat underfoot. Aged with the character only the constant run of children's footsteps could create. In certain areas there were grooves left from the wheels of the bike being left there for days at a time where all the shag was running in the opposite direction to the conformists in the group. It held a certain smell, a mix of the pungent whiff of dog piss, stale milk and petrol mixed with the fragrant whimsies of a multitude of Yankee candles and air freshener. 

She had wanted a new rug, spoke about it almost daily with a kind of sadness in her eyes. This piece of aged mush held memories of her babies as newborns, had softened the seat of their posteriors during countless breakfasts and dinner whilst watching the array of shows on the CBBC channel for children of their age.It represented the long nights her prince had spent taking apart motorbike after motorbike, painting and cutting wires, fixing exhausts, talking to himself in that soft mutter, one of the endearing things she adored most about him. This was not a rug, it was the holder of memories of the formation of her little family she loved so very dearly. 

, For a year now the ideas of what could replace it had repeated, arisen, been discussed. However she could never decide what would give the room as much character as this old used, worn-out piece of carpet had done. It felt foreign to her, the idea of anything else holding such a center point in both the family room and the family. Deep down she knew it had to be, she just couldn't bring herself to throw this member of the family away, despite the pong wafting through the air, invading the nostrils at every opportunity. It was like the waifs and strays she collected at school, she loved it for all its imperfections, there was no way she would have disregarded one of those little souls so how, she asked herself, could she do it now.

This piece wasn't written by me but a very talented friend.