The Sofa

We sold it to a young couple who pulled up in a U-Haul van at dusk. It was a Saturday, and our son was two. I couldn’t wait to be rid of its microfiber fabric that felt soiled despite endless scrubbing.

That sofa, you see, was where I held my nightly vigils during the infinite dark of postpartum. If I couldn’t sleep, it seemed apt to lie awake on something reminiscent of daytime; maybe then I’d feel something normal, even if only for a minute.

Maybe even the joyful nights of years ago would seep into my skin somehow. The joy I faintly remembered during mid-summer romance, when my future husband and I couldn’t get through a whole movie together. Back then, before the dreadful hour upon me.

That sofa came to represent all that was no longer comfortable, all that could not be soothed. And when it was carried off that Saturday, the constant, rattling memory of those nights went too.

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