I miss my old home. A married couple without kids owned me for three decades. They discarded me because I didn’t suit their remodel. Now I belong to a family of five.
Juice and grease cover my once vibrant surface. No longer am I plush and firm. Kids used me as a trampoline despite scoldings and time-outs from their mother. My arms creak. However, I’m whole, continuing to seat between five to eight people.
One day, my blue fabric will be appealing again. It will draw people to me. At least, in wishful thoughts of my future. In reality, I’ll get shampooed, but remain broken down. A few years down the road, I’ll be the main torch in a bonfire.
People will sit on tailgates, lawn chairs, and trailers watching me burn while they prattle about their week. The kids will interrupt them for drinks, snacks, questions and tattle tale sessions. The flames will claim me, turn most of me to ash. My springs in days to follow will be dug out to take to a scrap yard.
Like me, most furniture isn’t kept as a family heirloom or made to become antiques.
*I wrote this as a self imposed writing exercise to write from the point of view of an inanimate object.