Thrummy

workspace_thrummy.jpg

thrummy

  1.  of or abounding in thrums; shaggy or tufted.

The day felt drab although the sun was shining and the weatherman was predicting fantastic temperatures and a long-awaited repreive from the onslaught of rain they’d been getting. It semed that eeveryone was excited  by that news.

But Alex was more intoxicated by his surroundings indoors. He stared at all the junk surrounding him, things his father would’ve called “treasure,” if he were still alive. Now al that treasure belonged to Alex. What he would do with all of his late father’s hoarded goods, he had no clue. he wasn’t even sure why his father would consider himself a collector of such trivial things that had no value and were utterly worthless.

Alex began meandering around his father’s workspace, critically looking at items, hoping to find something of worth.

He was headed toward the corner when he almost tripped over something. He didn’t even have to look down to know what it was. The familiar texture of slipping strands beneath his flat dress shoes spoke volumes about his father’s ability to keep everything he ever owned. He looked down and stared at the thrummy rug, wondering why it was here instead of the house.

It seemed smaller than it had in his youth, when he used to sit on it and absentmindedly freeing its strands from their weave as Lee Majors captured his imagination in the The Six Million Dollar Man.

Now threadbare, the rug a was more grayish-brown than its former white color and it seemed to be no biggere than his feet. Alex bent down and took a closer look. He knew he couldn’t have destroyed the rug that badly during his TV watching time.

A flood of emotion hit him as he reached for the remaining strands, remembering how he and his father watched TV, laughed, speculated about what the characters would do next–what they would do if they were in their places and had super strength. The feel of the strands between his fingers ushered him back to the past as tears welled up in his eyes.

“Dad!”

Alex called for his father, sounding like a wounded, abandoned animal, feeling helpless and alone. He knew he would get no answers in this place that reminded him so much of his father and yet was so devoid of his presence. There were only things left…things and memories. And his father was gone. Alex stmoothed out the rug so it lay flat agsint the concret floor and stood up, surveying his father’s treasures and the things that meant so much to him, including Alex’s rug.

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