The Mama Couch

Today it is snowing. It is dry snow- which I am grateful for. I do not like the wet snow, because its gets stuck on my eyelashes and turns my mascara into wet goop that drools down my face. The dry snow is falling quietly-creeping to the ground as if it were trying to keep a secret that white specks were falling from the sky. I feel as though it wants to remain a secret because Monday, it came like a surprise party gone awry. Poor snow. But not really.

Today I wish that I were at my home in St. Louis. Everyone would be at school and I would climb into my couch with Mr. Steinbeck’s book, “Travels with Charley”. Obviously I would read it with my dog, Vallie by my side because it is only appropriate to read about a man and his dog… with my dog.

I say climb “into” my couch, because there is no way to sit atop of the cushions. That is not its purpose. The 12 year old couch does not sit erect. Its purpose is not to perfect the posture. It is there to engulf you and hold you there until you are ready to leave. It is a mama couch. It will provide whatever you need and remain at your service until it is sure that its purpose is fulfilled.

Once inside of this couch I would pull my off-white comforter, colored by years of use, up to my armpits. I would wait for the duck feathers to calm down from the excitement of movement. The air would seep out of any seem that it could find, creating a perfect suction of comfort against me, reverberating heat back to my body.

I would probably fall asleep while reading Mr. Steinbeck’s work of art- not because it’s boring- I would just be letting the couch do its job. Of course.

I would be awoken by our beautiful old Craig’s list piano not being played, but strummed. Strummed over and over again like you would a guitar, with a few loud plucks every now and then for the extra umph. Jaina’s way of trying to wake you up, without “ waking you up”. It usually works, unfortunately.

I would allow myself to wake up and realize that I am still in my apartment room, painted pink by the reflection of the red blanket covering the window.