“Our sofa is gone,” said my husband, Rick. “It’s kind of sad.”
It’s sad for me, too.
This sofa held years of memories for our small family. Though old, it held its structural and material integrity (it was reupholstered just once!) but we are turning our downstairs area, where it used to reside, into a “writing room,” complete with a new desk and computer, and there’s no room for the sofa. We donated it to an organization that will pass it on to someone who does have room—and really needs it.
But it’s sad, and I wonder: How can an inanimate object evoke such feelings? How is it possible?
I know the answer:
It’s not about the sofa. It’s about the memories linked to the sofa.
And there are lots of memories.
The sofa had been part of our family since our son, now almost thirty-three, was a toddler. The sofa was where he sat and listened to music, fell asleep after a soccer game, conversed with his friends, recovered from strep throat, and cuddled with his dog, Paul. I remember those times with tender nostalgia.
But that time of our lives is gone. Some parents long for those times when their children were young, when they could cheer them on to a home run again or applaud their clarinet solo at the school band concert, but I don’t really long to go back. Those times are rich with memory, but the present time is also rich. I enjoy being the parent of an adult, and I relish the times the three of us spend together as we continue to make new memories.
Still, there’s the remembering…
…and the sofa is gone.
So many years gone.
But what is not gone—and cannot be diminished or taken away—is the love in which I will always hold these memories.