Leather Couch

Eight years old she sat nestled at the feet of the couch. Looking up, her father was a formidable figure, lean but tall and a with a voice that reached farther than the living room, spilling onto the street. It was night, and could have been a weeknight or a weekend. There was no respect to that sort of thing in this house. There her father sat, engaged in the concerto of her parents’ relationship. Just like a classical composition, the discussion would rise to enormous heights, lull to inaudible mumbling, rise up again and again and lasted long periods of time, until the musicians and instruments had worn themselves of sound and energy. Her mother was at the opposite side of the couch. She looked away from her daughter. She was disgusted with her sitting there, watching them was fine, but it was too much to listen to a child’s marital advice. And yet the fight continued, no one removed the child, no one removed themself, no one stopped the events.

The girl’s heart raced and she didn’t notice the sweat she broke. She just watched steadily and interrupted to play therapist. An elementary school student, and still she felt an imprisonment of fear and anger. She worked over in her head her parents' reasonings and re-told them out loud. From below, the child looked and reminded herself to keep him calm and keep her calm. That couch. That couch seemed so monstrous from below. It was the epicenter of her whole world. Amidst a scene of perversion. Coincidence, a Georgia O’Keefe print overlooked from the wall! True that for a child there is little world outside of the family. There’s school and family. For adults we can think on broader scales in broader strokes: we have the past, future, continents thousands of miles away, space and universe orbiting our world. For an eight year old there’s a smaller context: her four best friends, her brother, her parents, her teachers. Not much else. But on the floor of her apartment she was aware of the constant traffic of people walking the sidewalks right below their window. Her voice was kept low as she remembered the neighbors across the hall and next door. She must keep order in the eyes of others out there. Before she could come to a conclusion, her parents were over. They were tired, and pissed, and sad, and done. It was time for bed, to sleep before errands or work tomorrow morning.

"But, wait!" She desperately yelled to them. She wanted her mother to declare a break up. To realize the emotional tornado can’t keep happening. Or she wanted her dad to agree and say, with reason, "Yes, dear. I understand how you feel and I’ll work on not making you feel that way again." Otherwise, the whole night has just been madness. A sick cycle. You can’t just sigh and go to bed. But they did. Even got stern with her, as the tired couple stumbled to bed. After the lights were shut, she crawled back out to the couch. She snuggled where her parents had sat moments earlier and stared at reflections of street lamps on the window shades, and listened to the occasional car drive up the street.