Dear Couch,
I have mixed feelings about you, truth be
told. We have a lot of history, you and I. As I lie reading on you this early
morning before the sun was even awake, a lot of memories popped into my head.
Because of this, I decided there were a few things I needed to let you know.
We first met back in January of 2012. My
family and I were new to Germany, and had just moved into a rather large home.
It was beautiful – lots of windows and a huge expanse of bright, white tile on
the floors. It was a little uncomfortable at first, though. All our belongings
were packed away in a big, blue container that was on a ship bobbing around
somewhere on the vast Atlantic Ocean. The few folding chairs we’d borrowed and
the hearth in the living room were the only places for us to sit, so when we
met you we were all very happy indeed.
You were hanging out at the Poco. I’m sure
you remember it although you haven’t been there in almost five years. It’s a
wonderful store right in the heart of Kaiserslautern. It has three floors just
stuffed with all sorts of things a family who has just moved into a large,
empty house needs. I’d like to say it was love at first sight, but that wouldn’t
be entirely accurate. There was another couch there, a leather one, that caught
our eye as well. After much debate, we realized that the wonderfully wide
windowsills in our new house required a couch with a shorter back. The leather
one simply wouldn’t fit, so we decided to take you home.
This, I’m afraid, is where our troubles
began. Perhaps this wasn’t all your fault, although you do weigh an awful lot.
Even with all your parts separated, you are a mighty heavy haul. It didn’t help
that we had to climb two flights of stairs—made of stone and covered in ice
that time of the year—just to get to our front door. After that, there was a
large, spiral staircase we had to conquer inside the house before we were able
to reach the living room. I think I recall moving a couple of your rather
weighty pieces around the back of the house to avoid that second set of stairs.
All I remember was mud, some very thorny bushes and a gate we couldn’t open. I
think I’ve blocked the rest of that adventure out of my mind. I will say that
once we got you into the house and in front of the fireplace where you
belonged, you looked mighty nice. And we were grateful for a place to sit down
since all four of us were exhausted and a bit battered from moving you in.
The living room didn’t look quite so big once
you arrived. You were accommodating, serving as not only a place to sit or lie
down, but as a dinner table and a place to complete school work. Perhaps the
fact that you were so useful for a considerable amount of time is why those
feelings I mentioned earlier are mixed. You see, I’m an optimist. The glass is
always half full. Perhaps in this case, the cushions are always half plumped.
Well, maybe not. Anyway, I’m confident you see the point I’m trying to make.
Having said that, however, we need to face
the harsh truth. You’re big. You’re bulky. Sometimes you’re simply in the way. How
many times have we all stubbed our toes on your pointed corners? I know that my
left pinkie toe will never be the same since you reached out and grabbed me
that one cold November day back in 2013. I’m not as sure of the other dates in
which you caused my family or me bodily injury, but you have a rap sheet at
least as long as your middle fold out section filled with your misdemeanors and
acts of random violence.
I thought maybe your crime spree would end
once we all relocated back to the States, but you proved to be an international
criminal. Not even the burly trio of professional movers escaped harm at your
hands—er wood frame and upholstery. The exact nature of their injuries was
never revealed, but I know I saw at least one of them limp out the door once
you were safely inside, and the string of profanities that filled the house
while they were moving you in makes it a certainty that you were the cause.
When we brought you up to the living room
a year and a half ago, you pulled off your most heinous crime to date. While I’d
had lots of issues with my wrist before you came upstairs, it was this last
move that finally did it in. Just a week after the kids and I got you situated
in your final spot, I began seeing an orthopedic surgeon. It was decided that wielding
your heft was the straw that broke the camel’s back. Or more specifically, my
wrist. It was with much bitterness that I curled up beneath a blanket on your
less than comfortable surface and lay my head upon your misshapen cushions after
several painful cortisone shots and two difficult surgeries. I’d come to terms
with the fact that you were not the nicest piece of furniture we’d ever owned,
but you’d finally gone too far.
You’ve been with us for five years, so you
might be wondering why I’m writing this letter to you now. I did mention before
that I was trying to get a little reading done this morning. I don’t do that
very often. As a matter of fact, you may have noticed that you and I don’t
spend a whole lot of time together lately. My toes are afraid of you, and quite
honestly, you’re just not pleasant to lounge on. My attempt at finishing a book
today just reminded me of that, and that’s why I felt the need to vent.
Truly, I hate to hurt your feelings, but it’s
past time that I tell you if we hadn’t bought in you Germany, and if we could
afford to buy a new couch, you’d be history. Oh, and that little incident after
my last wrist surgery … you know, the one where my stomach decided it didn’t
like all the meds the surgeon pumped into me? I’m not at all sorry. Consider it
payback.
Sincerely,
The person who would rather watch T.V. and
read on the floor
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