As much as I hate them, the stains on our carpet are kind of comforting. They're like a memory map.
There's a big, crusty stain by the balcony door where Amanda was rocking back and forth in this inflatable chair we used to have and accidentally spilled Pina Colada all over the rug.
There's a large orange stain where a whole cup of orange Faygo soda met its doom.
There's a dark stain by the hallway where Shelby's friend puked all over on the floor and then spilled an ash tray in it.
Ash trays and ash trays and ash trays. In the future, when the world has ended and spacemen have come, they will carbon date our carpet and still find those ash tray stains.
Even with the shampooing, we've burned these fields. We've burned them down and we have to move on.
But to where? And when?