Emily Allgair, Author

Here lies the doormat.

Ah, yes. The good ole’ not yet, but almost, worn down doormat.

As you can see, each time the doormat is stepped on, the footprints their marks. Individually and collectively. 

Some may argue that the doormat is used to this treatment, as he is exactly that: a doormat.

And if you ask him, he’d say the exact same thing. But, if you were to ask me, I would instead ask you to step around the doormat. Or over him. Even under him, just not on top of him.

I’d ask you to recall a time that the doormat wasn’t a doormat. I’d ask you to see why he is who he is, or rather what he is, depending on the length of which you are willing to look.

I’d ask you to remember how he was raised under a feminine hand, lacking the masculinity that society expected. To remember each societal disappointment, each speck of dirt, that this environment laid to eventually become his foundation.

I’d ask you to recall every comment, whether it be an external remark from a stranger on the street or an internal observation noted from glances in the mirror, and recognize the weight that they carry. How slowly, but surely, the doormat’s bristles catch and collect them.

But above all, I’d ask you to consider how the doormat’s inevitable comfortability with these dirt specks have been misconstrued to resemble an invitation for mud-covered boots to wipe their worries away.

So, yes. Here lies the doormat. The good ole’ reliable, beaten down doormat. Seventeen years of footprints putting the weight of the world on him and leaving it there, for him to deal with alone.

So please, step around the doormat. Or over him, even under him. Maybe just leave your shoes in the grass.

And if you’re feeling up to it, ask him what his name is. Because he has one, and sometimes he needs a little reminder of the worth behind it.