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The Old Couch

Some months ago I wrote about my mums bright yellow walls. I still have them, but I am now ready to paint over them, remove the carpet and let go of a little more of my mum. Back then I felt like I was colouring over my mother, brushing her out, getting rid of the last vestiges of who she was.

Wanting to make space in her little granny flat (that I now live in) I decided it was also time to sell her 3-seater futon lounge. I took pictures, put it up on facebook swap buy sell and have a buyer ready to pick up this afternoon at 4.15. As I looked around, I realized I still see my mum sitting there every morning, with her cuppa, listening to the local radio station, her knitting in hand and her trusty little dog Molly sitting beside her. Molly still sits there, alone. I rang my friend for advice, I feel the grief so palpable and raw, no time has passed. She said maybe it held my mums DNA on that little corner of the couch. I guess for now, like the walls back then, the futon needs to stay.


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