Replacement

By Layne Mulcahy

The rug in the living room is green. Lime green and soft enough for me to cry on, to lie on at night when I’m alone in a space made for many.

The rug in my bedroom is mine but I don’t know what “mine” means now. Not hoarded, not shared nor bought nor gifted. It might be mine since it belongs to me, if a rug can feel belonging, having never seen the sun.

The light and life and love of sunshine; what a pretty thought for my darkened eyes pressed inwards. I wonder if I’ve ever seen the sun. If seeing is believing, could I believe tomorrow could be waiting?

Could I find meaning in my ever-pontificating, grasping, hoping hands? Fingers in the lime green carpet shag aren’t searching, if hoping can be separate from the search.

As many carpet fibers wound up in me in strands of three, competing for my finger’s teary touch. If I can find it.

I don’t know where I went, but I’ve been living in my head in the meantime. I was right here when I left but I can’t find me.