Dear couch,

You’ve served us well and bear the marks to show it. The ripped fabric, the unraveling cording, the mysterious stains, the foam picked out down to the wood. There are so many memories embedded in these scars.

The cups of tea spilled when my children clambered onto my lap or I laughed too hard in conversation with my husband.

The squashed springs from my children jumping on the cushions or flinging themselves from the armrest onto the seats.

The popcorn squished in-between the cushions from the many “Chez Shea Movie Shack” showings on Saturday mornings during COVID when there was little-else to do.

The grooves where I spent so many hours sitting alone on the couch nursing my older son and watching endless hours of 90s shows so I could stay awake.

The ripped cording gnawed on by our fluffy bunny rabbit’s sharp teeth who we adopted for my older son’s 7th birthday.
The frayed and torn fabric my children picked at in times of frustration or sensory seeking or just boredom, especially during virtual school.

The squashed cushions where my husband and I have sat next to each other so many nights, too tired to do much less but look at our phones.

The comfortable space that makes us feel like home.

The spot you’ve stood in a room that has gotten so much use in a small house, especially over the last year and a half where we’ve left it far less than we expected. And even before that, in the center spot of our living room in our first long-term apartment. Where we snuggled together under blankets when the power was out during Stormaggedon and watched TV having just moved to D.C.

Yet, it’s time to move on. We’ve ordered a new couch to take your place – although it’s not arriving until Thanksgiving, if we’re lucky – but you will be remembered. Thank you for your service.