Where Dead Men Sleep

The “good” couch.  That’s what we called it when it was new.  It was purchased at Sears.  It pulled out into a bed.  My late grandparents slept on it when they were in town.  It is almost as old as me.

It lived in almost every room of that house.

Then it was moved to another house in another city.  Finally, after several years of no longer being the “good” couch, it came to live with me.

It was the only couch in this house.  Prior to its arrival, we were sitting on lawn chairs from our camping supplies.  The couch came with a matching loveseat but the loveseat never got much love.  You just couldn’t stretch out on it.

Eventually, another pair of “good” couches became old couches and then they became unwanted couches.  One man’s trash is another man’s treasure, so they found their way here.  In order to make room for them, something had to happen with “old faithful” and the loveseat.  Appropriately, the living room set from the eighties got demoted to the basement that was decorated in the seventies.  This seat in our house ended up with the best seat in the house: directly in from of the television set.

Its river rock pattern of shades of grey and peach got greyer and greyer.  Its cushions showed wear, then they showed holes, and underneath I could see yellow foam.  A fleece snowman blanket now covers them up.  A sprinkle of carpet deodorizer every few months.  To freshen them up.

Brain dead men who watch Netflix till dawn.  Men who just need to sleep it off.  Men who do ridiculous things.  Men who need to be alone.  With their thoughts…

…move the dog bones off and kick off the dog. They fluff up the pillows, take their glasses off.  They pull the knit angel blanket up to their chin.  They let their nightly death begin.

Tomorrow is another big day.

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