Trauma couch

All furniture has a story. But this particular couch feels like it started with the weight of the world, and went downhill from there.

Another small painting by my oldest daughter, circa 2020.

We were always hand-me-down furniture people:
my parents’ old futon. A friend’s cast-off love-seat.
An entire sectional, abandoned in front of a well-groomed house. 
I drove so slowly with each disassembled piece 
sticking out of the back of our mini-van.
My husband walked behind, holding up the sueded end. 

Even—I can’t believe I’m telling you this—
an armchair abandoned in front of Greek Row
which I sniffed compulsively before shoving into my trunk.
That may have been a bridge too far.
But furniture is expensive
and for many years we were poor.

When we weren’t as poor, we hunted for seating
at thrift stores and estate sales, hungry for bargains.
But one day a leg on our rummage sale sofa 
collapsed, my middle son startled off of it; 
and another day the street-scavenged sectional 
poked out a metal edge, like a lion baring its teeth.

So we went shopping, sitting on couch after couch.
At La-Z-Boy the kids loved the recliners, leaning all the way back.
Our hollow-eyed daughter, home from eating-disorder treatment,
scorned the Scandinavian sectionals. All of them are so hard.
I walked her to Starbucks between upholstery debates
watching each sip and bite.

When the new sectional arrived, months later
it towered over the family room like a prison rampart. 
I couldn’t see over it, couldn’t see my flattened daughter 
folded onto it, couldn’t see the sun 
through the wall of windows. I wept 
and told my husband that I couldn't stand it.

We traded it in for a couch lower to the ground,
a U-shape boring and brown. Now I could see 
where she sat, scrolling. The light moved back into the room.

But the day that sectional leaves our house, I will celebrate. 
It was always going to be a bad couch. 
It never stood a chance.