Dear black living room sofa,
All good things must come to an end. I know, it’s sad.
But not that sad, or else we’d be keeping you.
I’m calling bulk trash today, sofa. John and I have finally decided that we’d rather have a gaping hole in our living room than live with you for one more second.
I’m sorry: it sounds harsh. And it’s not your fault you’re so decrepit now.
You were once the newly-upholstered sofa in my then-new-boyfriend’s condo. I walked into his hip urban apartment, saw the view, saw the jam-packed bookshelves, saw you, and I thought, “Hey, this guy has some style!”
My then-boyfriend-now-husband told me that his mother had gotten the fabric to re-upholster you when she was in India. She may have had to buy an extra suitcase to get it home. Very classy fabric, too: white stitching on black cotton. Elegant, but masculine.
I’m sorry I don’t have any pictures of you in his bachelor pad, but you were the star of the show. John was in an anti-furniture phase back then; he thought it was ok for grownups to put their drinks and magazines on the floor. And you’re so close to the floor that it actually wasn’t that unreasonable a concept. But I digress…
You were a big part of our lives.
When John and I got our first condo together, you were the anchor of our living room.
Our new babies threw up on you. Our cats threw up on you. I’m sure *I* threw up on you at some point.
Sorry about that.
We moved you again, to our new neighborhood, to this house, where they’ll carry John and me out feet first.
But not you, sofa. No, you go today.
You looked handsome against the blue-grey walls of our new living room.
And handsomer still when we changed the walls to red…
…and white, although not exactly the right shade of white. But again, that wasn’t your fault.
It’s not like I didn’t TRY to extend your life, sofa. I washed your cushion covers so many times they’re grey. There’s more baking soda in your seams than a respectable bakery goes through in a week. There are still pins holding virgin fabric against your cat-shredded arms from when one of our daughters’ schools had a parents’ reception here.
Remember that? It was all for you, sofa. All in the name of denial that you no longer were young, and spritely, and the perfect sofa for us. Sadly, re-upholstering you is not an option.
As I’m sure you’ve noticed, sofa, we’ve been gone for several weeks. I know a semi-empty house isn’t much fun. But this time, seeing what the cats did to you in rebellion against our absence…well, it’s not your fault, but we just can’t live with you anymore.
So, sofa, farewell. We had some good times.
I’d say I’d miss you, but, well, I’d be lying.
Love,
Annie
