Several days ago, I looked around my house and started to get irritated. The couch from when we got married is still in our living room. There’s an old wing chair — it was my grandparents. Permanent black marker scratches are on my dining room table. There are shoes all over the entry way. And dishes waiting to be washed in the sink. There are walls to be painted, and a floor that just needs to be swept.
That worn couch that I so want to replace – has memories. Laughter and tears. Each worn thread not only shows signs of wear, but of family. Of hours spent reading to my kids. Or hours snuggling little babies to sleep. It shows victory – there was a time when Todd was too sick from radiation treatment that he couldn’t get off the couch – and now he comes and goes as he pleases. There’s contentment and rest — good and bad — life found there resting on those worn cushions.
newborn Sam sleeping on me
Oh – funny couch. Held up with weights. Just those weights are a memory. Of moving and living in San Diego (they broke off in this move). Of improvising. Of still working on things even though they are broken. There’s the pillow where the seam broke where I attempted to stitch it together. Then the memories of finding the stuffing in the boys room — it was their “best” day ever. At least that’s what they told me.
Brennan and Caleb
Someday, I’ll replace that couch. It will probably be soon — I’m ready to upgrade. But, honestly, you know I’ll miss it. Not only because I was okay with plopping myself on it and cuddling a little guy who just ran around outside, but because that couch, that couch holds memories. And those things have to be earned – one broken leg, ripped seam, spilled coffee, thrown pillow and squished seat at a time.