Living with ghosts
When my father died almost a year ago it was a massive letting go. Of the man I loved and cared for, but also saying goodbye to my childhood home and the many *things* it contained all steeped in memories.
My sister and I managed pretty well, but I couldn’t part with the badly damaged rug in Dad’s bedroom. This rug (the larger darker rug in this photo) was in my parents’ bedroom from the time I was born. As a child, whenever I had nightmares, I would sneak into my parents’ bedroom with my blanket and curl up on this rug next to where my mom slept.
Now, the borders were badly torn and frayed, and there were gaping holes dug by chairs, the hospital bed, and years of neglect.
It would need magical, and expensive repairs. Bashir, a specialist, identified the rug as an antique Kashan (circa 1900). And in an impulsive, and emotional move, I sent the rug off with Bashir to be repaired. Wondering if I had made a huge and costly mistake.
Here it is, almost a year later, several feet shorter than it was in its original form. A beautiful Frankenstein‘s monster of a rug.
I’m still paying it off. 😂
Yes, it’s just a thing. An inanimate object. It is not my childhood. Or my mother or father. And we must be forward looking and not live in the past. But this rug brings me joy. And I will treasure it for as long as I am able. 🖤🖤🖤🙏🏼
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