New Sofa

Last week we gave away our 100-year-old sofa bed in exchange for a 100-year-old sofa, slightly bigger, longer, perhaps better for taking a nap or sitting three people. The sofa bed had recently been becoming uncomfortable, a small tear beneath the seat cushions had turned into a larger rip almost all the way across that made sitting feel like sinking. And when I learned that the 'new' sofa would be a palatable shade of green and that it would have funky wooden feet, I began plotting the white (if you can call it white) sofa's removal, the stained, threadbare slipcover free to be threadbare and stained in someone else's living room, someone else's attic. An enthusiastic woman from Maine came to take our old couch away; I nearly hugged her.

After a week of sitting on the new sofa in all sorts of configurations, it turns out that it sprongs instead of springs. It is tired beyond tired and this shows, especially when sitting. The outercovering might be nicer than that of the other couch, but the insides, they spring and sprong and rumble and threaten to break free when pressed upon by little feet. And while it's true that taking a whole-body-stretched-out nap is now possible, that's about all the new couch can do--one body stretched out, not moving, not springing or spronging, this type of couch sitting such a rarity in our house that we might as well enshrine it. In plastic.

The going and coming of the couches, along with a school year ending and children growing and the coming and going of people in my life, makes me wistful, thinking about the things that I once had that were slightly flawed but more than acceptable, exchanged for something that might be better. So I am not yet plotting the removal of the new green sofa, mostly because I know that it can't be replaced.