my grandma likes to tell me that i have compelled her
to replace her carpets 3 times.

once, on easter,
when i gleefully peeled brightly dyed eggs
and
upon discovering the contents,
disappointed by their deception
that something so beautiful could be so mundane
and uninspired on the inside
with a scent that reviled,
naturally,
one after another,
i ground them into the rug
until yolks and whites mingled
satisfactorily
with fibers from the seventies
and became something far more interesting.

the second episode
met me with shears.
how was i to know
that carpet does not grow back?

i like to think i pulled her
out of the eighties
when i fell down the
metal-plated stairs,
split my head open
and seeped blood in pools
deep into the sea foam green.

a new carpet erased the evidence
but
a score of years has passed
and my forehead
is still proudly marked
a reminder of the day
i fell and
shattered on the inside.