Something that weathered through life with you, a place you can go to, to be at ease, translated…
For a period of a whole decade, I’d, passed by that couch repair shop every couple of days, there came, the clinking, the nailing sounds of certainty of the master that fixed up the sofas, that broke through the sharpened screeches of the cars on the streets, like it’d, severed off that normal flow of the day, making it, into, an awkward sort of a sight.
like this???
Outside the shop, there were, the frames of an assortments of couches, and, some had the sponges that were, pulled off attached, yellowing, wrinkling up, shedding off, in the wind, and under the sun. Not long thereafter, as the customers selected the prints, in the skillful manners of the master, after the new stuffing got patched in, the couch became, brand new again, and, no one could, ever recall, how this was, once, an old and outdated, close to breaking couch that it used to be. As the couches waited to be reclaimed by the owners, thy stood, on the shopfront, tilted their heads out onto the streets, like that row of young children, dressed in their brand new clothes, waiting for their parents to pick them up after the first day of school. Some had the retro print on them, like they’re, the last unwed daughters who’d remained in a family, hidden, in the cities, to live out, the rest of their solitary lives, but they still, shone brightly. What’s interesting was, these sorts of couches, are usually, single seats.
I had, a couch like that.
The surfaces, widen, without the armrests, with the circular back. My friend selected the black leather surfaces, after a bit, she’d moved, and couldn’t take it with her, and so, she’d, given it to me. It’s often said, that when we move, we need to, reduce what we owned, and, what we can’t take with, we’d, lost, that way, we would, have enough money for the move. When it came my turn to move away, I’d felt, that this, was a silent request my friend had, asked of me, that no matter what, I would, not abandon it.
And now there’s, this longer couch, seatable for two, three people.
As I busied myself, I couldn’t have a moment on the couch to sit. As I rushed home from work, I’d, needed to, sort through the groceries, help my kids get washed up, planned out every single second. Thankfully, that couch was, so well-behaved, with its, fuller body, like that pet that’s, quietly, waiting for the owner’s, attention.
or this even???
And, every now and then, as I’d, made the suppers, finished up with the chores, I’d, found the time to lie down on it before my families made it home, I’d, gotten, stuck, into that state of sleepiness. The dusk became, this enticing quilt, lightly, covered over me, calling me to sleep. As I struggled to wake back up, it was like, the light’s been, taken out of the skies so suddenly.
As I lay between awake and asleep, I’d, thought of how the young Japanese singer, Ishikawa at his worst, illness, and in his loneliness wrote.
Why
Am I here
Suddenly, I’d felt shocked, and, stared into the living room space
At this time, the couch became, this, stop for the cars passing by, connecting between the spaces, outside the window, barrenness, vast, the skies and the openness, left no sound, just waited on, silently. Unsure, of that invisible boundary of the tracks of time, maybe, it’s, waiting, for that train that’ll, rush into it from the distances at any moment, or maybe, it’s, waiting for that delayed route to set out from the stations, then, the train can, enter into the station, or maybe, it’s just, waiting for that stray animal, to escape the tracks.
Hiked Up to the Peak
Waved My Hat, and Doing Nothing
I Hiked Back Down
At this moment, I’d, felt especially fragile. The minute things in life, came at me, like those, high-speed trains, refusing, to get, delayed. The tracks were made, for the trains, extended for them, the day’s operations, scheduled, day after day, circulating, without time to slack off.
Like Waiting for that Money Out of Nowhere
Sleep, Awake,
And, a Day Passes by Like So
All these, the couch heard, with its, stuffed up insides, accepted everything. Before I must arise, I’d, lain in it a bit longer, just a little longer. I’d, intentionally, not recalled how, their, dying frames inside.
And so, this, is how something had, weathered through your life with you, and, it’s sturdy, counted on, it’s something you have as a constant, no matter what’s happened to you in life, you can, always, crawl your way back, into the arms, of that favorite spot on that couch.