I fell in love with that couch the first time I saw it in the window of a neighborhood store in New York City. The soft beige leather was oh so inviting, like a first date asking you to come in and visit. To the touch, the leather was very, very soft. It called out to me—sit here, relax, rest, watch a baseball game.
It could seat any three people—say, my wife, Michele, and son, Mike, and me, or our dog, Rags, and me, or various combinations of friends and guests. When I sat on it, it felt like warm leather. It was as smooth as a well-used baseball glove. Before the war, in their Prague apartment, my parents had a red Italian leather sofa—as comfy as this one. As a young boy, I bounced on it.
When the new sofa was delivered to our New York City West 89th Street apartment, we placed it in a prominent spot in our living room. We loved sitting on it every day. The first time my mother saw the sofa, she admired its soft leather. She asked if the leather was Italian and from Florence. I surprised her by answering that the leather was from some really fine Texas cows.
Michele and I would sit on the sofa with wine in our glasses and watch our favorite Masterpiece Theater shows and the PBS news reports. Of course, the couch also made a convenient spot to wrestle with our young son. The couch became everyone’s friend and an equal seating opportunity provider. I felt good sitting on it when I returned home from teaching all day or evening at my college. I would often sit on the sofa with a cold beer and feel relaxed. Some days, I would lie down, put a pillow under my head, and take a short nap.
Perhaps the touch of the leather reminded me of long-ago painful days when I returned home from a three-week stay in New York Hospital in September of 1993. The couch served as my second bed. Michele had her communication business office at home in a nice-sized West Side apartment, and I would see Michele and her staff walk by busily. Sometimes, our home felt like Times Square. And Peggy McCann, a wonderful caregiver, visited several days a week to cook meals and help me walk again. The couch helped me heal.
Years went by, and still the sofa served us faithfully. We moved from New York City to Dobbs Ferry, north of Manhattan, and the couch continued to cheer our lives. Mike was in high school by now, and he was a popular kid because he had good social skills and because our home was close to the school.
As a professor, I often worked at home and would periodically receive a phone call from Mike asking me to pick him up, along with a few friends, from school. There was no way to tell how many tenth graders fit into my four-door Volvo, but I think I was close to the Guinness World Record. Michele and I decided to buy a huge trampoline from Sam’s Club so that Mike and his friends could let off teenage steam outside of the house. When I told Ira, our attorney, what we had done, he said I was nuts. When they finished their vigorous bouncing, the crowd would come in for water, soda, and cookies. The couch became the seat of choice and held a bevy of sweating teens. The couch welcomed all of them.
At some time that year, Mike and Sarah became an item. Many of their dates happened in our living room as they sat on the couch and watched any number of movies. Michele would offer popcorn before she and I went upstairs to our bedroom, while Mike and Sarah had their privacy. The friendly couch never revealed any of their secrets.
But as with people, the couch began to show its age. The once smooth and shiny tan leather had over the years become very gray. Its strong body had turned to flab, and trying to sit on it had become a challenge. After an emotional discussion, we decided to donate the couch to a local charity. Our last inspection of the couch revealed an interesting collection of pennies, nickels, and dimes, tubes of lipstick, candy and gum wrappers, and many hair pins.
Farewell, beloved couch.
© 2025, Peter Stein. The text, images, and audio and video clips on this website are available for limited non-commercial, educational, and personal use only, or for fair use as defined in the United States copyright laws.