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There she sat proudly in the window, in all her powder-blue magnificence; pale pink flowers embroidered across her bosom, frills daintily falling from her skirt and demurely covering her slender but solid legs. I had to have her.
It was a dull, cold November afternoon – and my birthday. A 20-year marriage had crashed to an end just three months before. I hadn’t seen it coming. I was, typically, the last to know about the affair.
His life seemed to be perfect – younger woman, new car, no responsibility. Mine was none of that – demanding job, public transit, daycare. And why had I not had the foresight to see that my birthday fell on “his weekend” with the children? Did I not care enough about myself to ask for my children to be with me on my birthday? My broken heart felt wrenched beyond what it could bear.
To fill my emptiness, I laced on my running shoes and ran, letting the cold November air clear my mind and fill my lungs. My heart, however, was another story: huge, aching and empty. Until I saw her.
A new furniture store had moved into the location of a former restaurant. It had not been there the week before, and I’m sure it was only there for a few months. I hadn’t had a thought about furniture, but when I saw her sitting there in the showroom window, she pulled me in. She was perfect! Before I knew it, my credit card was out of my pocket, into my damp palm, and I was committed.
I’d never done anything so impetuous in my life. Oh, the liberation! There was no one I needed to consult; no one to question her colour or style or practicality. No one to second-guess me. I loved my new couch and she was coming home to me.
Over the years, she sat proudly in our family room and in the centre of our family’s heart. She held me and my four little girls close. She absorbed our tears. Her springs rejoiced when we did. Her arms held us as we slept. She proudly wore the stains of our lives. She welcomed our friends. As we changed and grew, she remained solid. Her fabric lost its youthful vitality and she became all the more charming.
On Friday nights, after a long, hard week of work and school, the five of us cuddled on the couch to watch movies. It was the one night of the week we ate on the couch. As my little girls grew and their tastes evolved, our weekly takeout routine progressed from McDonald’s to smoked meat to Chinese. To indulge ourselves even more, we always made a Friday-night stop at the Bulk Barn, each clutching our own little, or not so little, carefully chosen bag of treats. Many pounds of rosebuds and gummy worms were devoured on that couch and the couch withstood it all.
Over the years, the heartache mended. One by one, the girls left home, off to university, to new lives and new adventures. Christmases and holidays found us together again, the couch always central to our family celebrations. A granddaughter arrived and it didn’t matter if her juice spilled on the couch or that she left her crayons to melt in the sunshine into purple wax lumps on its fabric. It was all a part of our story.
And a new love entered my heart. He was definitely not the pink-flowers-on-a-country-blue-frilly-upholstery type. He was more the leather, adult-lifestyle guy. Knowing the importance of blending two lives, I also knew I was ready to let my beautiful couch go. She had liberated me, been my birthday gift to myself in one of my darkest moments; she had comforted my family and created so many memories. She, too, needed a new purpose.
And so, my precious couch was carried lovingly out to the garage, where a young, newly separated mom adored her. “It has such good bones, solid construction. I know exactly how I will reupholster it,” she said.
I knew my birthday gift to me was going to become another woman’s gift, capable of supporting another family through their own difficult time. Besides, our new leather recliners in warm taupe are more suited to our empty nester, downsized, aging lifestyle. I keep a little lacquered box in a special place in my home. It holds some of my life’s treasures: handmade Mother’s Day cards from my girls; my mom’s Bible (complete with an inscription confirming her perfect attendance at Sunday school at age 7); my father’s first bankbook, with handwritten entries in perfect penmanship detailing each dollar he so carefully saved.
Nestled in that box is a well-worn receipt, a bit dampened by my tears and wrinkled from the chill of that day two decades ago when I ran home clutching it joyfully in my hand. I didn’t keep that receipt to be reminded of the price, or to make any claim against the warranty: I kept it to hold on to that moment when life offered me a gift and I had the courage and spontaneity to embrace it. I keep it to remind myself that even in the darkest moments treasures can be found in the most unexpected places.
Diane Gorman lives in Manotick, Ont.