Something Larger, Something Whole
The wife prepared for their visit by deep-cleaning the rug: It was a wedding present symbolizing fortune and happiness. Wrapped and sealed in a black tarp, the rug made its arrival into the home of the young couple, where it was greeted by a side-eye and a subtle wrinkle of the mouth. At 8×10, it covered all of the living room space; from the nicked mahogany desk that served as their TV stand, to the ripped-up leather couch where they ate dinner in silence most nights. It was extravagant, and it looked out of place in the small one-bedroom apartment. The price tag had been left on it—as either an explicit reminder admonishing the couple against mistreating the gift, or an accidental faux-pas highlighting the sacrifices made to ensure its existence. Either way, for the price of the rug, they thought they could have gone on a honeymoon—a tradition better suited for their kind of love.
A year’s worth of labor had been devoted toward hand-knotting the rug’s wool and silk fabrics. It was custom-made by the hands of a villager whose blessings had bestowed two generations before them the gift of a harmonious union strong enough to withstand the blow of desire. The mother of the wife had explained the arduous weaving process in detail; from the moment the villager chose the fabric, to the long hours she spent spinning the materials. Every thread in the fabric, the mother told them, surrendered itself in order to become something larger, something whole. But the young couple couldn’t see for themselves the value of the piece. It was beyond them. The rug’s intricate patterns told a story in a language neither the wife nor the husband could yet speak.
The rug was never beautiful, the wife complained. Its flowers and leaves and crowded paisley patterns were at times incomprehensible, other times meaningless. The parent’s lectures and talks about their own rugs couldn’t help the couple find beauty in the lifeless object that seemed to require a level of attention and care they didn’t know how to give.
Now, two short years after its arrival, it’d become uglier. Its striking hues of red and maroon were fading away before the young couple’s eyes; with each passing day, the intensity of the colors became duller. It was losing its warmth. It was beginning to wane. From the window, the sunlight that blazed through turned the dark greens into shades of brown and yellow. Now the rug just sat there, deteriorated and overwhelmed with neglect: neglect that turned into abuse.
The hapless rug suffered wounds; wounds inflicted with intent; wounds perpetrated by carelessness; wounds as tragic as the prospect of a life in disrepair; wounds as casual as spilled milk; wounds by the husband; wounds by the wife; wounds masquerading as accidents; wounds pleading for forgiveness; wounds saying “It won’t happen again.”
The first stain? It could be traced back to a screaming match that awakened the neighbors—a glass of red wine that sat too close to the edge of the table and tumbled and spilled over the light brown clusters of paisleys. The wife attempted to clean it by mixing baking soda and dish detergent. This being the first wound, she tried, with genuine effort, to heal it. But the baking soda and the dish detergent, compounded by the vigorous effort of regret, left a discolored patch that much to the couple’s dismay, just wouldn’t disappear.
There was also that funky smell that permeated the bottom right quadrant. It came after the dog ate and vomited an entire pizza unattended on the coffee table. That too left a stain.
A third stain made its appearance shortly after. It consisted of drops of the wife’s favorite nail polish. Neither she nor the husband could remember who threw the polish at the wall, when it shattered, or where it sprinkled the bright purple liquid. Occasionally, she’d find and pick at the dried up droplets of paint, hoping, rather passively, that one day they would come off.
Today, with the impending doom of questions and the looming disappointment of their parents, they decided to address the problem. They rented a steaming machine and bought industrial-grade soap. They were determined to get rid of the stains, no matter how futile the effort. While waiting for the store clerk to retrieve the machine, the couple held hands and exchanged kisses on an aisle at Home Depot. Their smiles, nervous and ephemeral, hid the fact that there were only a few hours left to repair the damage. They both questioned how they ended up there, waiting, averting others’ gaze, and dodging the thought that maybe it was time to let go of the rug.
