23 Mar 2022
It’s been nine years since I found the couch. Forty dollars is all they asked, a paltry amount even then. It was old for a couch. I guessed at the time it was at least forty years old. It was in good enough shape for a woman starting over again in her late 30s. I looked for several weeks to find a couch that spoke to me. Nothing too new or trendy or cookie cutter that I would find at any home. I wanted something that felt like me, a little colorful, shabby, comfortable, and would only fit in a limited number of spaces. Being ever the budget-focused woman, I needed it to be well-priced.
And then, there it was. Exactly what I wanted. A seven-foot-long couch, two shades darker than pale green floral damask upholstery, three cushions with buttons along the back, and wooden legs. Under the middle cushion, a vintage satin label with frayed edges holding on by the last few stitches read,
The Madden Quality
John J. Madden Mfg. Co.
Indianapolis.
Surprisingly comfortable, a couch for napping and cuddling on. It was perfect. I had to have it.
Over the years, the couch would age more. Water spills would stain the upholstery and mysteriously slowly fade away. An ill-advised adventure fostering two feral kittens would leave its edges scratched beyond repair. I would move to a space too small for its length. Friends would suggest I give it away and replace it with something newer, smaller, more en vogue. I nearly followed this well-intended design guidance, saying I would get rid of it when I found something I loved equally well, or I moved to a larger space where I could keep it in an office or guest room. Still, I couldn’t let it go.
The couch would become a fixture in my humble little apartment. The couch was the place me and my closest friends would sit, one person on either end with a cushion between them. We would grab coffee or a cocktail, kick off our shoes, face each other, and have the kinds of conversations that enrich and solidify lifelong friendships. It’s where my friends and I would share stories, work through heartbreaks, cry, laugh. We would share our most sacred feelings on the couch eye-to-eye with no other distractions, fully present. Even friends from remote parts of the world who never sat on its thinning, but welcoming cushions, left their presence – their stories on the couch’s legacy. I would sit in my spot on the couch talking to these, my nearest and dearest loved ones, as if they too were sitting on the opposite cushion. There I received pivotal life advice and comfort through bouts of depression, and all life’s challenges. It was the place where I discovered and celebrated parts of my soul.
The couch became a comforting bed for friends who stayed up talking too late to safely drive home. It was the place I regularly curled up on for naps or fell asleep watching TV. It was the place, despite having a comfortable bed a few steps away, family and guests would request to sleep when staying over.
It was the place where guests and loved ones would sit sharing meals in my cramped one-bedroom apartment. Couples would cuddle. The sick recuperated. Books were read. Work was completed. Writing was done.
The couch had become a place of refuge without my knowing it. While the couch continued to age, losing buttons, and creaking in the middle, I could no easier give away the couch that had seen me through so much, than I could give up on an aging loved one.
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