Burn marks in carpet

A response to a prompt about the essence of ancestors

The smell
Stale and heavy
Clings to the the fabric
To the air
I can barely breathe.
The walls no longer
White are stained
Thick and yellow.
Black spots scattered
The once shaggy carpet,
Burn marks from fallen cherries.
Empty bottles
Filling the bin
to its brim.
Happiness standing
at the door
Waiting on sobriety
So she can come in
For fleeting moments
To take my little hands
And remind me
Of what healthy looks like.