On the Blue Couch

Thank you, Giovanna, for the invitation during our Writing Group to write about an object. I followed her prompt by returning to a rough idea I’d been carrying and letting an object anchor the moment.

Dear Elena,

Tonight, we sat on the blue couch and talked while watching the boats coming and going on the Miami River. The sun had just set, and the earlier darkness before Daylight Savings greeted us with clear skies.

Our blue couch, L-shaped, temporary, sturdy, and big enough for the three of us, has absorbed many moments—from significant to mundane: Splashes of paint, traces from your markers, stains from a meal Mama shouldn’t have had while sitting on it.

Our blue couch was your favorite place to hold yourself up as you began standing. It has held you when you’ve been sick, and it’s held us when we feel lazy in the mornings, when your body has woken up, but your heart needs a few more cuddles.

Tonight, our blue couch witnessed your storytelling.

You’ve been speaking in full sentences for a little while now, mixing English and Spanish, playing with the conjugation of verbs, and blending words you think make total sense. But tonight, you used your sentences for a different purpose. You were creating something, not just informing.

“I’m telling a story, Mama!”

Seated close enough that I could smell your hair, I looked into your eyes and said, “Cuentame tu historia!” (tell me your story)

The tree crashed!

Mickey was wet.

He opened the door and woosh!

The rain!

It was boom boom boom

I felt my body melting into the couch. For a second, it seemed like the boats on the river slowed down. It felt like a first time. But these moments happen so quietly, so often, that I start to doubt myself. Is this the first time you’ve made up a story?

You bounce on the couch a bit and go on.

Crash! The tree crash, Mama!

Mickey was sad.

Oh noo

What happened?

I suddenly picture Melanie and her daughters, writing stories together. Here I am, on this blue couch, covered in our history since you came into our lives, listening to your story, and imagining a future of many more stories from you. I imagine you telling me stories over the phone, texting stories, and writing stories with me during the month of March.

The couch pulls me back into the present, and I stay with the crash and sad Mickey. I stay with your storytelling and hope you stay playful with words and ideas for the rest of your life.