I’ve been badmouthing the clunky futon from the day we moved in. “It’s an eye-sore.” “It’s not big enough for the four of us, let alone for when guests come over.” What’s a girl gotta do to keep the mattress from sliding off?!” If I had to guess, the couch dates back to when the previous owner’s remodeled the kitchen in the seventies. A couch should be the centerpiece of a home. The eyes are naturally drawn to it.
I used to daydream about replacing it with something aligned with our style, but the four flight walk-up discourages any heavy purchases from coming through our front door (yes, I curse all fifty-four steps on grocery day). Even if we were to brave the first hurdle, we would be stuck with another dilemma. It isn’t ours to get rid of and storing it is complicated. Begrudgingly, it remains on our home improvement wish-list, right under the lack of dishwasher and above the loose staircase railings.
The other day I noticed Forest, laying on a bunch of freshly washed blankets. From her improvised den, I could feel a sweet pair of eyes tracking my movements from across the room. Our pups rack up countless hours sprawled on the couch. It’s as much theirs as it is ours. We spend a lot of time together piled on top of the futon, a tangle of limbs, laughing and telling secrets to each other in the dark. Daily life (and couch) complaints melt away into the lumpy cushion.
I watch the whimsical French film, Amélie every year. The character I’m most fascinated by is Raymond Dufayel, described as the “glass man with bones as brittle as crystal” His unique condition confines him to his apartment, isolated from the world. He relies on a neighbor to drop off his groceries. Occasionally, visitors come by and check on him. He wraps his furniture in blankets to protect him from the threat of hard edges. Despite all this, he’s not an unhappy man, like you’d suspect. Aside from eccentricities, he’s imaginative and talented- a result of constant observation. Most of his life is spent staring out of his window painting the lives he sees in the building across the street. Raymond’s painting chair is his cocoon.
Whenever life gets hectic or heartbreaking, solace is found on our inherited couch. On especially taxing days, Jordan has made an adorable habit of leaving pillows and the softest pjs out for me atop the creaky wood frame. He’ll place a candle burning on the window sill, beating me to my own ritual.
My corner of the couch with a view of the redwoods is the safest place I know. Time slows down, productivity shuts off. It’s unfair I don’t give it the kindness it gives me. Sure, we may not agree aesthetically, but the older I get, the more focussed I am on the way my life feels over how it looks. Lots of living happens there. More meals are eaten cross legged on it than at the wobbly table. More books are enjoyed there than on our “reading armchair”. On a nightly basis, I extricate myself from the sea of blankets and migrate to the bed. During winter it’s nearly an impossible task.
If the kitchen is the heart of the home, what is the couch akin to?
Someday, in our next home, we’ll get the couch that screams “us.” Perhaps a modern green one made of luxurious velvet or a previously loved and lived-in brown leather sectional. Until then, I’ve put a hold on Pintresting “living room decor” and plan to inject sentiment in the things I once wanted to change. What started as an unwanted placeholder seven years ago transformed into the thing we didn’t know we needed. Maybe the couch is the heart of the home, after all.
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