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Jim Fabiano is a retired teacher and writer living in York.
I lost one of my best friends the other day. It was with me for almost 30 years. My wife was very happy about this because she wanted a new couch for a while and there was tell-tale evidence of age in the form of gaping holes and discolored upholstery. Not that I cared, because the couch and I went back a long way together.
I remembered when it was new. We bought it at a tent sale at a furniture store that went out of business a long time ago. It was raining and the owner of the store had surrounded the tent with plastic so his merchandise would not get wet.
No matter how many times we walked around the tent we always ended up back in front of this couch. Its red and white flowered upholstery stood out from everything else to the point it appeared to be calling for us to bring it home. It was a country style couch, with wide arms and a high back. I thought it might be a bit too feminine for my tastes. Until then I always thought couches were supposed to be black, white, or gray.
My wife liked it a lot and told me to sit on it and even lie down on it. I did sit and remember thinking it was very comfortable. I also remember liking the smell of it.
The furniture store delivered it the next day and put it in our family room beneath three large windows that overlooked the bird sanctuary. Over the years the sun flooding through the windows faded the couch into a pastel version of its original self.
The couch immediately became part of my family’s life. The first people to nest on it were my daughter and her friends. They came over most every afternoon after school to talk about things teenage girls need to talk about. My daughter was the first to spill something on the couch, which was quite remarkable because, traditionally, it would have been me. At first my wife was upset by the dark stain that marred the arm, but she soon got over it and purchased some of those arm coverings that made the spilling of things more bearable.
Our house was a place where everyone would come together to meet, play and celebrate the fact that we were friends and family. Just looking at that couch would bring back memories of all those people who were no longer with us. Friends and visitors who shared good times with our family, never dreaming that destiny was about to cut their lives short. No matter how many people plopped their butts on it at one time, it never gave way because it knew exactly how important it had become to our family.
I spent many a night on that couch. Sometimes because I did something that my wife, according to her logic, considered really stupid and sometimes because I didn’t have the energy to get up and go to bed.
For most of the past 15 years, I have to say I spent many a pleasant evening on that couch just watching television or reading a book. Over time, the couch literally molded itself to my body. I knew exactly where to sit or lie and knew exactly where to put my head when my neck became a bit too weak. This probably accounted for the hole that appeared in one of the arms because of the acidic sweat from my head that carved out the perfect headrest.
Then came the day when it was time to say goodbye to this piece of my life. I felt anxious as I watched the workmen maneuvering the couch out of our home on its final journey. I noticed they were scraping the back with the door jam, and I yelled at them to be a bit more careful. One of them told me the door jam would be fine and I answered that I was talking about the couch. He gave me an odd look and reminded me the couch was going to end up in a dump somewhere where no one would worry about an added scratch.
I lost one of my best friends the other day. Some friendships just aren’t meant to end.