Home...

Summer wanted me to have, of all things at my Mom's, an enormous red couch and its two hassocks, thinking maybe there was room in my apartment somehow. I think it would've had to have been craned in, the way they used to get pianos into urban dwellings and even then a window would probably have been needed to be cut larger. Once inside, it would've taken up the entire floor space of the largest room, the front room, of my rent-stabilised, railroad hovel. Everything else here would've had to have been mounted on the walls to make room. Her feet, our feet, would never have touched the floor, and entering this room, one would have ascended onto the higher red cushioned level, a foot ladder probably necessary. It is doubtless a testament to my adoration for her that I was seriously considering trying to work this all out and move this ginormous piece of home furnishing 600 miles across the country simply because it would please her to have it in our home. And that is why. I loved- and still do - having her things around me. I loved, I lived for her making this her home. I knew, I know, that my home was only and will always be simply with her.