Prompt A: Carpet

My feet meet the strange sensation every morning after I tumble into consciousness and onto the carpet. The kind of carpet my floor grows is the light brown of newborn's hair and it cushions the descent of my sleep dead body. It is not too soft to invite further slumberings, but just rough enough to propel myself again to reality, blunt cut tops tickling like half-hearted suctions cups. This carpet is hardly lived on; it barely has stories. There are no visible stains or marks of my time in it. Staring through the cleanly sprouts, I reminisce of my life encounters with carpet: vacuuming all the right lines in it; wearing wool socks and chugging train-like over it, amping up friction to cause static shock; all the abrasions, rightly called burns, by being drug or rough-rubbed across the tufts; sleeping upon it 'neath homemade forts; all the various story stains etched into the lively fabric. I mind-shuffle through all the furry terrains I've tread upon and wonder what they've chronicled of me.
Carpets come in all different colors, textures, patterns, and persuasions. There are woven carpets, needlefelt carpets, knotted and berber carpets, all unique piles on backing mix matches. Each describe a personality and a preference. A lot can be gathered from examining between the fuzzy roots. My grandparents' house used to have that old seventies shag carpeting. The kind you feel inappropriate saying and standing on. Worse, it's a putrid, once psychedelic orange cremesicle color, turned to more of a rotted carrot juice puke shade; blanched out by years of little and gnarled treading feet alike. I can place a memory with so many of the spots and patches that characterized that foul fiber forest. A small area near the television where I transfered my Barbie hair shearing skills to hacking away at the mat's tresses. A stain of blue tinge at the start of the hallway where I fed the floor the rest of my first slurpee. A black hole of old blood under the new coffee table where Papa fell down and hit his head having his heart attack. The eternal imprint left by the long gone antique crane statue, broken amid grandchild ruckus. So many ancient dinner particles, pieces of DNA, specks of somethings ground into the padded ground.
When my grandparents finally got the nerve to renovate, the first thing to go was the shag. It wasn't until then that I had thought of the ugly base as a collection of family memoirs. It was more like a tapestry, narrating our lives because it had literally soaked it all up. If walls could talk, they'd tell you to look at the carpet. It was always there for us, and all we ever did was walk all over it. Suddenly, I couldn't bare to part with the old battered hide of a Sesame Street character. It had my essence ingrained into it. I arrived at my grandparents' the day of uprooting, praying it hadn't yet taken place. Yet before I walked through the door and nestled my piggies in the citrus padding, I saw it being carried out, all rolled up and rank. It looked like it had put up a fight, the edges streaming tendrils chaotically. I sprinted over to it as the proud killers heaved and shoved it into their getaway truck. Gingerly ebbing my fingers into the soiled home soil, I grieved its loss, knowing it knew me more intimately than many I called friends. I only had seconds before they hauled it to its resting dump. I would never see the faithful shag again. It wasn't long before its replacement waltzed right in. All cream and lush, too soft to ever feel comfortable. It was clingy and desperate for attention, and I was still in mourning. That is until it soaked up my split fruit punch.
Time: +1 hr.