the big pink couch

Sometimes I think it's strange that I help people change things for a living when I have such a hard time with it. Change, I mean. Out with the old and in with the new. Like when my parents got rid of this hideous pink couch in the basement. I felt like my childhood went away between its cushions. In my opinion even then, "pink" and "couch" should never go together. I remember being embarrassed at the sight of it. It arrived well broken in -- we got it from a family who had outgrown it, or maybe they realized that a couch the color of pepto bismol wasn't exactly high style. Its arms were flat from people sitting on them, and the center sagged. It became a bed for my sister when, after three months in the our new house, she decided she didn't want to share a room. My cousin fell asleep on it when he took breaks from his pre-med studies. My little brother and his toddler buddies would geronimo off the couch's flat arm platforms when no one was looking, or when Rachel was babysitting, because she saw no harm in letting three year-olds tumble into pink-covered foam. It just made for comfier cushions.

We were allowed to eat anything on it, because any spill disappeared. It smelled like popcorn from movie nights and syrup from french toast breakfasts after sleep overs. Pieces of construction paper wedged themselves underneath where we sat, remnants of birthday cards for grandparents or school election posters. In summer when we'd hear the ice cream truck, we'd dive head first into the couch's middle, with high hopes we'd come up with enough spare change for a frozen treat.

I can't remember exactly when we hauled it way, or how, or to where, just that we did and that I miss it. In conversations among life-long friends and cousins who crashed on it during their college days, it will go down as the world's most comfortable couch. Somehow the popcorn kernels, pizza stains and the smell of stinky socks didn't bother anyone. Perhaps there are worse combinations than the words "pink" and "couch." And perhaps before I utter "Out with the old and in with the new," I'll suggest a deep sea dive between the cushions on their couch. Who knows what memories are sandwiched between them.

pedal pushers

On late summer days, the kind when there's nothing to do and everything to do all at the same time, we'd hop on our bikes and head north, pedaling like there was no tomorrow. We'd ride to our favorite street, the one with the perfect slope and the newly remodeled house on the left. Slowing at the bend before easing west with a slight turn of the handle bars, we'd make sure there were no cars, then in unison we'd begin.

Cranking our pedals with childish calves, we'd churn and churn until pedaling was no longer necessary and we could coast. Like performers on a tightrope, we'd take our hands off the handlebars and balance. Stretching our arms out into our trouble-less childhood world we'd raise our palms to the heavens, offering up our young hearts to the gods of summer. The warm breeze ran through our hair and across our faces. We were prayers in motion. Riding against gravity and fear, we were small gestures of innocent self-mastery, the graceful uprise of victory imprinted across our chests. Heads back and faces towards the sinking sun we were all smiles down the tree-lined neighborhood streets. One block. Two blocks. Then three, until our bikes slowed beneath us and we'd have to take up the pedaling and steering. Without talking, we'd glance in each others direction. Again.