CH 2 The Couch
Old, velour couch. I got to know its pattern intimately. We had needed to replace this old thing for years but somehow I could never bear to let it go. My gran had given it to us when we were newlyweds and needed furniture desperately. Bill hated the afghan I kept on it with a passion, calling it hideous, but as Gran made it, I insisted we keep it as well, so that Gran would see it when she stopped by. Now, I was torn. Should I honor his wishes and replace the couch, or should I hang onto this tangible reminder of both Gran and Bill? The fog in my brain kept me laying on the couch for weeks after his death, wrapped in the afghan and sobbing, unable to decide, or even doing anything beyond basic human functions. Eat enough to survive when Sam shoved it under my nose, even though it tasted like cardboard, go to the bathroom, breathe - even though it hurt - and sleep. A lot of sleep. I couldn't bear to sleep in our big, creaky bed alone, so I slept on the couch. Alone.