a space to create |
we got the new couch from my sister, who bought it used and restuffed it with a comforter that once graced our daybed so that her husband could sit without sinking—which could not be said for the old couch— a twenty-five year graveyard for hair ties and pencil stubs. getting it through our door required unscrewing four feet and eight door hinges and three strong men (plus my father, who is not as strong as he once was) contorting it in strange directions, at least one of which we thought was physically impossible. it sits, huge, the faded, mottled brown of a great horned owl, comfortably ugly, with huge pillows with geometric designs in a complementary gold. I’ve taken over the left corner where I can sit in the best light my laptop perched on my knee or on the rounded arm if I have to stand. as time has passed, my corner has evolved—I stack books and magazines and other reference materials on the old record player we use as an end table, until it groans on its shaky legs and I relent and carry a pile upstairs only to have the process recommence. I could watch television—it takes up the center of the facing wall, but it mostly remains dark while school is in session. toys are scattered around— a castle doll house complete with dragon a garage complete with cars in various sizes, mardi gras beads, and stuffed animals including a teddy bear with a green ribbon bowtied around his neck who belongs to me. they should be tucked in the box by the fireplace we never light. I curl up in my corner, a pillow behind me and beside me to support my back, my red snuggie enveloping me warming my bones and blood. I pull my laptop onto my knee, block out the road with Liszt’s help, and type. my fingers pause— then dance in a fervor of creation. line count: 56 |