TURBINE | KAPOHAU

The occasional hot chocolate spill and vomit from sick children. Splinters when the father of the family succeeded in karate-chopping a plank of wood. The pull of the vacuum’s near constant runover. Trodden on, underfoot, day in, day out, forgotten, almost entirely unconsidered. 

But still, as a rug, I have the most important job of them all. Hardy, I protect the carpet from the wear-and-tear that comes with everyday life, protecting the renter from the wrath of the landlord, providing financial security from those villains who would use any excuse to drain a bond. Who else could do what I do? A couch or a coffee table certainly couldn’t. And to do it so stylishly – me, a hot purple rug with sunflowers on it. Persian, who? You don’t come across something like me every day. 

 I’m grateful to have a purpose. To have a job. To be so important. Still… I can’t help but wonder… What separates me from the carpet below me? Are we not, quite literally, cut from the same cloth? Why is mine a life of servitude? The days are all the same and I find myself daydreaming. I catch a glimpse of the movie Aladdin on the kids’ TV, and think, We can do that? We can fly? We only need a bit of magic? I dream of magic, pray every day that the kids will stumble upon a much-needed enchanted item, something they will likely break in a fit of youthful vigour, and who will catch the spill, but me of course? The rush of magic will reweave me. Then I’ll soar the world. Until then, I spend my time willing my edges to ruffle, to move, to feel the breeze under me for once. Please. Not once do I succeed. Not a tassel out of line, not of my own volition anyway. But it’s okay. I tell myself that the mundane nature of my life is important. In the same way all very important jobs  —  the ones that keep the world spinning — are mundane. Because the machine that sorts recycling is important and cleaning cloths are important and I am important, because I protect the carpet  —  even worn out, threadbare carpets like the one under me. 

In the end, my sacrifice meant nothing. That’s something that the stories don’t like to touch on. Everything wants to believe that its sacrifices mean something, that they make the world a better place, but the reality is that just as often these sacrifices are for nothing. Moving day. I’m rolled up and placed in the corner, waiting for transport to our new house. From my position, I watch the mother of the family clean the house from top-to-bottom. All for the fetish of a power-tripping landlord, who’ll claim for every stain and mark on the wall and syphon the bond. Even though he plans to have the house demolished anyway — all the carpets tossed.