The Ghost of the Welcome Mat

Upon the threshold, worn and faded, lies
The welcome mat, a chronicler of tread.
It felt the weight of countless, eager sighs,
And silent farewells, mournfully unsaid.

Each fiber holds a memory, soft and deep,
Of hurried steps, and slow, returning pace,
The joyful leaps that children used to leap,
And hesitant pauses in this hallowed space.

It knew the scuff of boots, the tap of heels,
The cautious shuffle of a stranger's fear,
The confident stride that home's true comfort feels,
And every secret whispered standing near.

It watched the seasons turn, from frost to sun,
The rain-soaked boots, the dust of summer days.
It saw the stories, one by one, begun,
And witnessed endings in a misty haze.

A silent greeter, humble, low, and wide,
It bore the marks of welcome and of loss,
The bridge between the bustling world outside,
And private haven, counting every cross.

It dreams of footsteps, warm and light and new,
But wakes to silence, empty, cold, and vast.
A sentinel of thresholds, always true,
To every moment, from the first to last.

This worn-out mat, a ghost of what has been,
Remembers all who entered, left, and came,
A quiet witness to the life within,
Whispering each beloved, passing name.

- Khushi Kaul