There's something about old things.
They're comfortable. They hold a treasure trove of memories, both good and bad. They are mute witnesses to your best days and your worst.
They are like old friends. The ones you've known all your life. The ones who are no longer surprised whenever you fart and try to deny it. You keep going back to them because they are never far away. And when it's time to let go, something tugs at your heart that you can't quite understand. Sure, you'll get new friends eventually. But none like the ones before.
It's the same way with old things. And it's the same way with our old brown couch.
I try to pull out distinct memories spent on our old brown couch. But I couldn't. There are far too many.
My father bought it when I was barely one year old. So our old brown couch turns out to be my first childhood friend. I may have pooped on it or barfed on it, such details I can no longer recall. Nonetheless, it was always there, just ready to embrace me whenever I needed it.
I grew up with our old brown couch and it grew old with me. It was there when I was down with the flu. It was there when I dared to call my crush on the phone. It was there when I stayed up all night to study for exams. It was there when I first turned down a guy who confessed his feelings for me.
It was there on all my birthdays. It was there on all Christmases. It was there when I first got a cat--a point in time it must have hated, having become the involuntary scratching post. It was there when I cried my heart out, disappointed with my own mediocrity. It was there when I got my first job. It was there for every single thing. Even more than most friends have been.
But with all the wears and tears it had, despite all our attempts to repair it, my father finally decided it was time to let it go.
My father bought a new brown couch. It was different from our old brown couch. But then, so am I. I have grown up and I am different from the old me.
So I lie down on our new brown couch. And I smile. Because from here on out, the two of us will be sharing new memories. The couch with new tears, and me with new hurts. But at the end of the day, it will have me to mend it, and I will have it to comfort me.
Cheerios!
Rach
* Sorry, in all its years of loyalty, I do not have a decent photo of our old brown couch. But this image is pretty close. From sxc.hu
This was a writing exercise hosted by Steph in Adventures in Babywearing. If you'd like to share your own couch story, feel free to drop by her blog and join in!
