My Life As A Couch

“So she bought the couch?!”
“Yup.”
“Great! … How much… a hundred bucks?”
“A hundred end twenty-five.”
“Nice. I feel so screwed over.”
“By that couch…?”
“Yes, and by everything – life in general.”
[Gentle chuckles]
“Don’t laugh, this isn’t funny! I feel like I’m only worth a hundred and twenty-five dollars.”
[She thinks to herself]
My brown and gold, vintage couch with feather cushions.
Does this woman know that the cushions of this couch are stuffed with down?
Does she know that I adored that couch?
I slept on that couch.
I cried on that couch.
I laughed so hard I peed on that couch.
That couch was the safest, warmest place in the middle of winter when I kept my heat down low to save on the bill.
That couch hosted guests, my father, my brother-in-law, my neighbor.
That couch cradled us as we cradled big glasses of red wine.
That couch saw us when we played with photo booth on your Mac.
That couch watched as I concocted dinner in the kitchen.
That couch held fast when I beat my fists against it in anger,
When I practiced my backbends on its seat,
While I danced in nothing but my underwear across the living room.
Does this lady know that she’s getting a piece of my life?
Will she appreciate it as much as I did – do?
I can only hope so.
$125. Is that all its worth, this icon of a time in my life?
Not all couches are created equal.