i cleaned on saturday morning. that kind of deep clean that takes a few hours. i opened all the blinds, turned up ray lamontagne on pandora, and got to work in the sunshine. feeling like my mama and my grandma with my spray bottle and washrag.
and it was good. it was fulfilling and easygoing and productive. but i tell you, there are few things more fabulous than relaxing on the couch, taking in a clean home, putting your feet on a freshly dusted table and just stopping. satisfied that the work is done. i took in that moment. turned to face the sunshine smiling down on me, and laid my head on a floral pillow.
then i looked down.
at my couch. and saw the stains. the spots and scratches. the smudges and smears. and my heart sank. it didn't matter how much i vacuumed the rug it sat on, or mopped the floor around it, that couch wasn't going to look any better. i've cleaned it, scrubbed it and swept the crumbs out of its deep folds and crevices. but it's still marred.
i gave in to a little pity party by myself in the morning light. then i thought some more.
about the late afternoon in september when we first brought the couch home. to our first house on the grassy cul-de-sac. on the back of robert's grandfather's truck, on a wooden trailer. it took three grown men to carry the sectional inside the doorframe. the same doorframe robert carried me over as a newlywed. and later, when we moved into the little cottage, taking the couch apart piece by piece and spending an entire night trying to fit it into our new tiny living room, collapsing into exhaustion, frustration and laughter on the cold floor.
and i thought about the late nights in both houses. staying up far past a reasonable hour just to be with each other, to soak up this new sleepover called marriage. the movies we watched nestled into it, and the greasy popcorn we devoured on its arms.
when we first got pablo, he was shaved and cold. we wrapped him up in a big crocheted blanked and let him sleep on the chaise lounge portion. that's still his favorite spot. a majority of the stains are from his dirty, wet paws. his licks and his nose nudges spattered all over.
so my couch is stained, but all is not lost.
all is not lost, indeed.
one day, we will inevitably get rid of that sofa, the one the salesman said would "wear like iron." we'll replace it with a new one, and make new memories on its cushions. but saturday morning, with noon rising outside and a little bird perched outside my window,
this couch was impeccable.