Chatterbox: Inkwell

I was debating whether to put this poem in DtE as well as in the Inkwell since it is 95% a true story, but decided against it since it is in poem form when I write it here. I hope you like this poem. For loss of a better name, it's called Carpet. :)

"What does the carpet smell like to you?"

Father put his face to the ground.

"It smells like dirty carpet," he said. 

I lay there, not making a sound.

"Why? What does it smell like to you?" he asked,

And I smiled at him, feeling wise.

"Why it smells like memories to me, Father dear,

Memories of our lives."

"The carpet smells strange,"

Said my small naive sister,

"And dirty." added Father.

Oh, that poor lass and mister.

They could not smell the memories;

The times that we had had,

Under that roof, and over that floor,

The good, the sad, the bad.

They could not lie in a particular spot,

And remember from the faint smell of fruit,

That my little sister had spilt juice on the floor,

While trying to show that her cartwheels were cute.

They could not see a stain on the ground,

And know its story by heart.

But I can, and I tell you:

Some stains were funny from the start. 

When you can smell the carpet,

And smell not the dirt

But the story of how it got there,

Then you know how much it hurts,

When your Mother says:

"It's time we had this carpet cleaned."