My couch is my friend.
It is there when I wake up and waits for me patiently while I’m at work.
It is the first thing I see when I get home.
The last thing I see before bed.
Each cushion on my couch is different.
One keeps my top half comfortable and safe. It has moulded its life around mine like a Grandmothers embrace.
While the other, a little harder and always so distant, tends to my legs and my feet when they are tired.
My couch has a blanket.
Sometimes, I borrow it to keep me warm against the cool of the winter, or the fright of a howling wind.
Other times I look at my couch, with its blanket draped over its shoulders.
They must be old friends, I think.
The cushions, the pillows, the blanket.
These are my friends.
Before, and after work.
When I’m sad, or frightened.
Or perhaps if only to escape; for a moment.