The Portal in My Couch

Couches live and breathe.

They can read emotions faster than me.

In art school, couches live in all studios.

The most dedicated students are cradled by couches and sleep in studios.

I’ve slept on more than 10 couches.

My arms wrapped in my sweater,

Curled into the shoulders of a dusty, painty, couch square.

Late nights working on sculptures.

All-nighters in woodshop.

Post-break-up depression: there’s a couch for that.

The couch in my living room met me in a pandemic.

Soft, rusty yellow velvet, saved me from sitting on cold, hardwood floors, propped up by door jams and pillows.

The couch in my living room held me when I found out I was pregnant with you.

My arms wrapping around my husky, his bi-colored blue and hazel eyes watching, waiting.

Stopping anyone from getting too close to his new baby in my belly.

This rusty couch where I held my breath, hoping the shards of regret would work their way out as my body rejected them.

They never did.

I guess they’re integral to the fabric of my being.

The stabbing pain creeps in every year in autumn.

The same couch softened and cradled my body when I started to die,

When you stopped moving,

Your huskies wouldn’t let me stop moving too.

Poking me with their noses,

Howling.

Screaming,

Begging the couch to let me go.

Most nights, I don’t leave my couch.

Most days, I can’t get out of the hole that swallows my body.

I’ve gained 15 pounds since August.

My couch comforts me.

“I don’t feel like talking today.”

My couch whispers: “It’s okay.”

My body aches.

My couch opens its arms wide.

“I’m so tired.”

“It’s okay to rest,” says my couch.

“I miss my baby.”

My couch murmurs: “Me too.”

And wraps me in blankets, holding my shaking body.

Collecting my tears in jars.

I stare at walls and wonder how a dying baby deserves a life of pain.

A life of death sentences.

I wonder how a mother can live.

I think: “This can’t be real, there’s no way this is real, I’ll wake up soon and I’ll see you.”

My couch softly says: “You know that’s not true.”

And cradles my head in it’s arms.

I realize I can’t move at least once a month.

My couch tells me not to worry.

I drift in and out of sleep.

In and out of worlds.

Through portals opened by my couch.

I see you.

I touch you.

I hold you.

I kiss you.

I keep you.

And my couch does too.