Note: This is another writing exercise for Days of Grey.
The picture comes from arenamontanus of Flickr via a Creative Commons attribution license.
http://www.flickr.com/photos/arenamontanus/3406321153/ If you reshare/repost this image, please keep the attribution intact.
As I gaze at the swirls in the carpet, memory flashes to a different time, a different place. Time stops as faces, colors, and feelings wash over me. The carpet swirls today are golden earth tones, but long ago they were pink. I close my eyes and feel the rough fibers on fingers of long ago. I hear laughter of those who were much older than me, and I see siblings and cousins roughhousing and giggling. Someone is playing chopsticks on the old piano. Funny, I don't ever remember anyone really playing that piano, but maybe that's because there were always so many of us when we were there.
Mystery envelopes this house, as this is where my father lived as a child. I can't picture my father as a child, but I know he must have been one. He must have been an old child, with an old soul -- but a happy one.
With eyes still closed tight, I'm suddenly very warm -- overly warm. I remember always being hot in that room long ago where we gathered too many bodies in small quarters. My mind takes me outside the old house where a cool spring breeze ruffles my hair on the screened in front porch where my father slept, even on snowy winter nights. I wish I had known him then.
I hear stories and laughter. I wish I had paid more attention to the stories of long ago, but then again, I wouldn't be able to separate truth from fiction. Fish stories were prevalent in that old home.
My name is called, and I jump. As suddenly as old sensations flooded my world, they are gone.