There it sits. With it’s two beat-to-crap pillows, on a wet, winter morning in January of last year, waiting for the refuse company’s large truck to arrive and take it to its final resting ground. Our culture has regularly related humorous tales in many forms, on the relationship between men and their sofas, and us guys all see the truth in that.
I slept on that comfy bastard, nightly and most weekend afternoons, for at least 15 years. That didn’t do my back much good, creating painful wake ups in the latter years, but I couldn’t give it up. No, there was nothing wrong with our marriage – my wife and I were just very incompatible sleepers. I moved around a lot in my sleep, went to bed later and got up earlier than her. She snored loudly (as I was also known for on occasion) and gave off enough heat to warm a cold room. It was like backing into a wood burning stove.
After dragging the sofa out of the garage and placing it at the end of the driveway, I tossed the two pillows on it and went back into the house. While getting breakfast ready, I looked out the window, and the two pillows and the line under the 3 cushions seemed to make a face. A pleased face, proud of its years of service. A content face, for no longer needing to support my bony ass every night. And a face anticipating a peaceful rest of its own, having lived a life with a thankful man.