Oh Chip! You’ve been hanging around in the clouds for 6 months now. Such a long time – but only a minute!

I’m here now with a confession to you. I’ve always valued your advice, and we’ve pretty much agreed on the many important life issues we’ve shared.

So this one isn’t huge. Actually, in the scheme of things, it’s trivia personified. But together, over the years, we had made it a big deal. And now I’ve decided to ignore your mandate and go against your wishes.

It’s the living room rug — the one you’ve loved since it arrived on the floor of our apartment in South Florida in 1980. It the one your father and I designed together, instructing the innovative computer graphic program of its day to place the red and black swerves in appropriate places atop of the combination smooth and sculpted beige wool background, the one that has traversed onto four wood and tiled floors since then.

“I’m thinking of having the rug picked up and trashed,” one of our last conversations.


“Well, look! See these spots! I’ve had it cleaned soooo many times. They can only be removed professionally — for about $500 — and that’s only temporary.”

“Oh no! I love this rug.”

“Well—so do I. But, Chip! Everything has a life span.” Yes, I told you that, though I never told you that 65 years was enough of a “span” for a human.

Then I walked you around the periphery of the rug – with its tell tale marks of insidious blight, and then back into its interior with its boot-like enduring imprint in select places.

“Well, yeah, but Ma, … it – still – looks — Good.” you said in an attempt at expressing conviction. “Please don’t get rid of it—I love that rug,” was what you said.

We let it go.

It’s only a rug.

And now, Chip, you’re gone, and the rug is still here.

But not for long.

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