Farewell Dear Couch

I sit on the grass alongside the curb shivering in the midnight chill. I have not been outside since the day I arrived at my home twelve years ago. The brisk night air feels unfamiliar on my faded, cracked leather upholstery. I listen to the foreign outdoor sounds, so vastly different than the comfortable nocturnal sounds of my old house. A sigh escapes my seams as I reflect on the past twelve years that have been my life.

The year was 1999. I sat there immaculate and pristine in the living room section of Furniture World, waiting to find a home. Numerous potential buyers admired me as they stroked my soft leather or sank into my overstuffed pillows. For me, however, none of these families seemed to be the right fit. It is told in ancient couch folklore that when a couch is presented with his mate family, he can feel it in his stuffing that they are the ONES. And so I waited expectantly while the days and weeks heralded dashed hopes and disappointment. But my youthful optimism prevailed and I believed that the right family for me would soon come along.

On a crisp day in October, when I was beginning to despair of ever finding my match, I spied them gliding through the automatic doors. As the young couple pushed their double Maclaren toward me, my excitement mounted. I could feel it in my stuffing, in my springs, and even in my wood; I had found my family. I hardly dared to breathe as the young woman unstrapped her newborn from the stroller and sank into my softness. She sighed contentedly, cuddling the baby and smiling up at her husband.

“It’s perfect. Have a seat.”

Her husband made himself comfortable, bouncing the curly haired toddler on his lap.

“We’ll take it,” he told the hovering salesman, who was anxious to make a sale. I felt like my seams would burst with excitement. At long last, I would be part of a family! I had found my match!

Following a harrowing journey in a mammoth truck stuffed with mattresses and dressers and some fellow couches, I arrived at my destination. I was hauled up to the second floor walkup apartment that smelled of fresh paint. As I was placed against the far wall, I exhaled with relief. With satisfaction I noted the comfortable, homey living room with toys and books stacked neatly on the shelves. I knew I would be happy here. I had finally come home.

The years raced by and I remained an integral part of the family, a silent witness to both momentous occasions as well the daily grind of what humans call life. My family moved to a new house where I received a place of honor in the airy living room, under the bay window. I hosted guests and enveloped them in my comfort as they celebrated birthday parties. New babies were nursed at unearthly hours of the night on my cozy seat while I whispered soft lullabies to mother and baby, trying to lull them back to sleep. Hundreds of bedtime stories were read to sleepy, pajama clad children in my sturdy arms. I tolerantly smiled through birthday parties and play dates when I was utilized as a trampoline.

As time marched on I morphed into a cozy homework nook. New readers stumbled over the unfamiliar letters sitting comfortably on my lap. Children and adults curled up on me on long winter nights with books and magazines. Relatives would doze on me after eating the savory, Thanksgiving turkey that filled the house with an intoxicating smell that seeped into the grain of my beige leather.

Gaggles of neighborhood children gathered on rainy afternoons to build castles, forts, and slides out of my removable cushions. With a little bit of imagination, the possibilities were infinite, and I could hold the kids’ attention better than any blocks or Lego building toys.

There was no better place for a child who was under the weather to observe the family goings on than from the warmth of my pillows snuggled under a blanket. Elderly grandparents who are no longer in this world sat on me cradling the great grandchildren whom they never dreamed they would live to see. Through joyful times and through adversity, I remained stalwart and sturdy, a constant comforting presence in the living room.

Every spring, I was disassembled, vacuumed and scrubbed until my leather shone. Squeals of delight reverberated through the house as long lost puzzle pieces, books, toys, candy and plenty of missing spoons were unearthed from the recesses of my crevices. One year was particularly memorable when a pair of valuable earrings was uncovered from deep inside my seams.

It was a good life and I was happy. As the family expanded and the kids grew, I began to exhibit signs of wear and tear. My soft leather became worn, and my stuffing poked out of the holes on my arms. I was patched up and repaired, but just as beloved as always. My cushions no longer adhered to the Velcro, and the rainy afternoon post castle clean up became laborious, as the cushions would slide right off of me.

After about 12 years, I began to overhear murmurings of my being replaced. Thankfully, the children were horrified at the prospect of giving up their beloved couch, and I was able to joyously partake in the upcoming holidays. I attempted to put my best arm forward and held in my breath so my sagging would be less discernible. After accommodating the weight of all the holiday guests, I grew weary, and there was no more hiding my sagging middle and drooping arms. I knew that I could no longer postpone the inevitable. My time had come. A search began for a replacement while I silently made peace with my impending demise.

As I sit near the curb on damp grass, watching the sun rise, I can hear the distant rumble of the garbage truck. I am tired and worn, but blessedly content in the knowledge that I have been loved and well utilized. I am grateful for the happiness I have witnessed and the warmth and joy to which I am a testimony. I have served my family well and my mission in their house is complete.

Perfect for Fort Building