Ode to an Armchair
In a surprise twist on the normal gratitude conversation, we want you to write a thank you note to a THING—coffee, perhaps, or trashy TV, your couch, a snow shovel, whatever.
Dear Blue Armchair,
Do you ever miss your ottoman? I’m sorry we had to bid him farewell a couple years back—there simply isn’t enough space, and I grew weary of climbing over him just to get out of bed in the morning. But we had some good times. The ottoman sat much closer to the ground than you do, a deception prime for slapstick. I can no longer count the number of visitors who unwittingly sank into it, their eyes snapping open in shock as they questioned their own sanity and depth perception.
Then they discovered the wheels.
The ottoman was your perfect fit, contouring around you like a corduroy yin yang. I miss him, too. I used to curl up with both of you all the way back in high school. You cradled me as I speed-read novels for English Honors, dozing off in your comforting embrace.
My step-mom insisted I bring you both to my first college house. You attended your first big parties (sorry for my roommate’s projectile vomit—we did our best to clean you) and completed our hodgepodge of basement furniture. I brought you to grad school and back again. Sylvia loves you, too; she sits like a human propped up against your armrest, if not sprawled out across your cushiony top. (Again, sorry she peed on you that one time. And I’m sorry that you still smell a bit like vinegar in the parts where I overcorrected.)
It felt so wrong taking that battered old ottoman to the dumpster, but it was time, and the void he left behind was almost exhilarating in the calm it provided. But in these pandemic days, I certainly do miss you as a duo.
I say all this to you now because I don’t think it’s likely you’ll be coming with me to the next space. But you have served me well, over many years and many different Merediths. I’ll miss you dearly, as you must miss your ottoman, and the many buttons you used to have on your seat cushion, all long since popped off. You’ll likely go to repose in or near the same dumpster as your brethren. And I, as I did before, shall whisper a heartfelt goodbye.
Thank you for everything, armchair. Please don’t be jealous of IKEA. Those Swedes could never truly replace you.
