Even though it was nine years ago, I remember that giddy anticipation when we purchased our house. Our first house. This house.
Were we taking too much of a financial risk? I was barely a year into my job as a law firm associate. The very month during which we closed was also the apex of the bloated housing bubble. Needless to say, we leaped without much of a parachute, much less any alternate flight plans.
Would we spend all of our free time cleaning and tweaking this house? Our 800 SF apartment had been quite enough to maintain, it seemed.
Was this too big for just the two of us? We had no plans for animals or children.
But perhaps most pressing at the time, where will we sit?
We quickly realized we needed to fill these rooms if we wanted to use them. Wasn’t that the point, in fact, of buying a home?
Given the inflated cost of the house, our budget for furnishings was meager. We decided to start with the living room. We only had one piece to bring from the apartment: an oversized, overstuffed chair and ottoman. A faded sage twill, it was incredibly comfortable, at least to our twenty and thirtysomething year old bodies. It was practical too: the ottoman doubled as seating during parties. No matter that it took up a third of our new living room.
Yes, we would have to design and coordinate any new living room furniture around this chair.
We filled the room, somewhat in haste and all without really projecting into the future. No, we didn’t exactly account for our actual daily endeavors and pastimes in mind, or how our bodies might age (hint: much faster than we anticipated). We bought a honking large armoire to tuck away the tube television. A coffee table and an end table with the world’s sharpest corners rounded out the rest of the room. People could sit now too. The couch we ended up with was striped in green and blue, and a more scaled down version of the stuffy, puffy chair. Eventually we added a cheap book shelf to the room and a little bit of tabletop lighting.
It was all ours. These pieces quickly became fixtures within the central corridor of our home. People could sit and gather, think and talk, flop and snooze.
And tomorrow, we say goodbye to all of it in order to make way for new things.* Pieces that won’t break our backs anymore. Pieces that are more thought out with what we like to do in this room. Pieces that take into account the wide range of ages that frequent our home.
Up until a few days ago, I was happy about the whole thing. I mean, of course I still am. Our new space will have some additions I have coveted for many years (read: far more bookshelf space) and will lend itself to a more streamlined flow. We also have an opportunity to make others happy in the process. Yes. Good things.
And yet I am suddenly sentimental about one piece that is moving on: our sofa.
While watching my daughter lounge across the blue and green stripes earlier this week, I was unexpectedly face to face with an attachment I didn’t know I had to this workaday piece of furniture.
All in a moment, I remembered all that has happened on those 82 inches of upholstery and fill.
The endless hours of nursing her in that first (draining) year, her soft wisps of hair fluttering against my naked skin.
The Al Bundy years.
The (seemingly) endless hours of tending to her through the stomach bug/roseola/colds/strep/swine flu/fevers.
The infinite games of Uno and Go Fish.
Emma and Paul getting priority seating.
The countless cereal bars and yogurt smoothies consumed there by her for breakfast. Every. Day.
The slowly growing length of her legs that used to take up just one cushion, then two, and now three.
The naps where she fell asleep on top of me and I just breathed in the scent of her hair until she awoke.
The skills learned.
The books read.
The birthday and Christmas presents opened.
The sillies and the tickles.
The tears and the laughter.
I guess it’s not surprising that I am feeling sentimental about the sofa, though I wasn’t really expecting this reaction. It’s caused a few tears for sure. I thought maybe giving away her bed or our dining room table would someday move me like this, but not the sofa that I can no longer sit in for more than an hour without suffering the painful consequence. Yet, when I really think about it, there is a physical closeness that takes place on the sofa that is very much unlike what happens around a table or even a child’s bed. Snuggles ensue. Hugs happen. Heads rest upon shoulders. Toes touch knees. Intimate moments become indelible imprints. It is, it seems, the natural order of things when two or more people are sitting in such comfortable and close proximity.
But it’s time to let it go. It is.
And, just maybe, it will become sentimental to someone else too.
* I’m happy to pay all of it forward. The chair went (for free) to a woman who was looking to finish furnishing her own living room on the cheap. I was a little irritated because she never came back for the ottoman as promised, but I ultimately found another sweet, older woman who was looking to decorate her much-saved for and recently purchaed beach house where she will visit with her ten grandchildren each summer. She will reupholster the ottoman and use it as a coffee table. And the rest? It will be going to help formerly homeless individuals who are taking those first steps of having their own place to call home, and just need a little help filling the space. For those of you living in the greater Boston area and whom might have gently used furniture to donate, I encourage you to reach out to the Massachusetts Coalition for the Homeless. There are many—too many—families who could use what you no longer need. Other than the chair and ottoman (which I gave away via Freecycle), this is where all of our living room furniture is going to live its second life, and hopefully a wonderful one at that.
Copyright (c) 2014 Kristen M. Ploetz
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