Exercises in Type

Note:  There's no real point to this post, and it leaves off abruptly.  It was just a bit of a writing exercise and some bits of a thought I wanted to get out of my system:

Sometimes I feel the need to cry.  I just need to get it out of my system.  A few weeks ago, I found my mind wandering to Great Gram.  I let myself start to think about all my memories at her house.  Then specifically I challenged my mind to recall all the intricate details of that house, just to see how much I could remember.  There was an underlying fear in my gut that I might have forgotten.  I was nine when she died, so in 15 years, you can forget a lot in that amount of time.

The first memory that was most clear to me was of the carpeting that covered her foyer, living room, dining room, and the hallway to the bedrooms.  It was not quite white.  I wouldn't call it beige either.  I think "oatmeal" would best describe it.  I think it might have been Berber.  It was all the same shade of oatmeal, but it varied in length a bit to create a sort of swirly undefined pattern.  It was firm, composed of tight little loops of fiber. 

What I remember most, though, is how it felt on my knees when I was a little girl.  My toy box was situated on this carpet, in the doorway between the living room and dining room.  I spent many hours kneeling on the carpet while I dug through the toys in search of a specific treasure.

I remember that carpet hurt.  You certainly couldn't slide across it as you pushed a toy car around.  It wasn't nearly so soft as the teal-green shag in my parents' living room that they had yet to replace from the previous owner. 

I think of poor Uncle Larry, who'd give me piggy back rides across that harsh expanse of oatmeal sandpaper on his hands and knees.  Ouch.