Impromptus I might add to/poems

Under the Rug

"Here, Peter. Take a look at this," Abigail calls from the living room. Peter takes his ancient figure from the kitchen to join his niece beside the lamp. A couple photos hang on the wall in front of them. The two stare back at the many pairs of elated eyes in the frames. First birthday parties, last days of school, Christmas Eve at Great Aunt Nora's: you name it, a picture was there. The photographer made a point to include every family member in as many images as they could. Everyone, that is, except her.

"She always loved being behind the camera," Peter pointed out. "Never wanted anyone left out of the records." His eyes drop to the lemon yellow shag carpeting she just had to get. "It reminds me of summer and daisies, don't you just love it?" were her exact words to Peter when she installed it without his knowledge. He wanted more than anything to tell her how atrocious the flooring was, but he couldn't bring himself to rid her of that beaming smile.

Abigail puts an arm around his shoulders comfortingly. "I know. I miss Kelly too. Like a second mom to me, but we gotta get this stuff out of here for the potential buyers. Who knows when they could get here?" Giving Peter a pat on the back, Abigail takes an empty box from the pile and starts removing the frames from their nails and placing them gently one by one into their new, temporary home. Peter follows suit, until a nail pops out from its place in the wall, plummeting to the citrusy, plush monstrosity covering the living room. He meanders his way to the ground, peering through his coke bottle glasses for the missing tool, raking his fingers through the rug. He finds, not the nail, but a lump under the carpet. He nudges the shape, and the most peculiar of sounds escapes from the mysterious object, like a low groan or growl. This startles Peter, making him jump back to his feet as soon as he makes contact. Abigail whips around at the commotion and sees her petrified uncle, back glued to the wall, and eyes locked on the ominous lump under the rug.

"Huh," she shrugged, "how long was that there?" Abigail turned back to her uncle, his gaze never straying from the enveloped object in front of him. Abigail, with a quizzical look toward Peter, states "I have no idea what's got you all jumpy, but I think it may be a perfect time to call it a day."

Peter's stare finally tears away from the carpeted form to meet his niece's confused one. "Didn't y-you see or hear that? Th-that, that thing!" he exclaimed, horrified.

"Yeah no, time to go home. I'll take care of the rest another day on my own. You can stay home next time," Abigail announces as she offers her hand in assistance to Peter on the floor, back against the wall. She moves a wooden dining chair to cover the lump, picks up her box of picture frames, and heads out the door with Peter trailing hesitantly behind her. They head to the car silently, while Peter's mind continues to race at the infinite identity possibilities for the creature under the rug.

Two weeks passed, and it happened again. Peter received a call from the real estate agent informing him of the sale. They had until the end of the week to clear out the house of any more personal belongings so the new owners could move in as soon as possible. Peter plays through the conversation in his head. "One of the key reasons they picked yours was the living room rug! Wanted me to pass on their appreciation for someone with 'phenomenal taste in flooring'" the agent chirped over the phone. The rug? Peter rolled his eyes with a smile. That evening, as soon as Abigail fell asleep, Peter grabbed his keys and snuck out the door to his and Kelly's old abode. His mind wandered back to his Kelly-Bean,to her good days: picnics by the lake in the park, tending to her garden, her hair appearing golden in the sunlight, her smile as bright as the sun. What Peter wouldn't give to see her again, to hug her and never let her go again. So what if Abigail wants to finish on her own, he thought, I know that thing was real. I just know it! Peter bursts through the door and storms into the living room, courage coursing through his veins as he raises the chair over his bald head. To his horror, the shape hadn't budged a smidge. By now, Peter had enough with this torture. He'd go to Kelly whenever he needed a good listener or a surefire way to get away from the sadness of the world and "focus on the fantastic" as she put it. Looking back at it all adds immense weight to an already heavy burden, and this carpet creature put Peter over the edge. He takes his pocket knife and starts mauling the canary rug.

In the heap of lemony shag sits a small wooden box. Gingerly, Peter lifts the box into his lap to take a closer look. It's covered in a floral carved pattern with painted green leaves and petals of a plethora of yellow shades. A small, brass key juts out from the side. He turns the key around twice, releases it, and his eyes begin to water at the sound from the box. A gorgeous waltz fills the air, transporting Peter to his and Kelly's first dance. Everyone was smiling and laughing, but none could compare to her beauty that evening. He carefully opened the lid to find an envelope with his name on it. Upon opening the envelope, he found photos. Photos of her: in the garden, at the park, on their wedding day, all of them! There was a piece of notebook paper along with the collection in Kelly's cursive handwriting.

"Peter, my love," she wrote, "thank you. I know the past year and a half haven't been easy on you, nor anyone for that matter, but you stuck with me. As I sit here writing to you, I try and focus on the fantastic one more time. You were right, it does sound immature now that I try it. I've never been one for photos, especially recently, but it's never too late to make a change, as I like to say. With that in mind, you're reading the note so you obviously found the hidden treasure (and a reason to destroy the rug. You can't pull a fast one on me. I know you, and you did NOT like that carpet at all!) I hope this note and those pictures will serve you well. I'm ok now. There's no more pain for me to endure. Through thick and thin, I knew I could always count on you. Keep going for me. Take care of yourself and everyone for me.
I love you, always have and always will.
Yours,
Kelly-Bean
P.S.
Did you recognize the song? It's one of my absolute favorites."

Peter folds the note back up and places it gently back in the box. Tears of relief well in his eyes and a smile joins them. He reads the note over and over, takes in every detail in each photo. Everything is ok, for his wife is happy and free of pain; that's all he ever wanted to hear.