The sofa in the drawing room was born in my uncle’s place before I was born. The dining table joined us from the same place, from even more ancient times. The small cabinet on which the TV rests used to reside with my aunt. Most of the furniture at this house has seen more of the world than usual furniture. They feel at home, resting against a background of lightly decorated light yellow walls and dim lighting and things that don’t match.
This is why when the new bed entered the house one day, it stood out in sharp, brown contrast. The rest of the furniture looked on, confused, as the bed was brought into my brother’s room. I empathised with the older furniture. To me, the new-looking dark brown bed seemed bigger than it was. It took too much space in my head, and so seemed bigger to my eyes. Everyone was happy this piece of new furniture joined us, but none of us were used to it.
Things were changing. The older furniture was fearing its demise. It was dreading being forgotten about, dreading that all memory of its contributions would be lost. In an attempt to provide it some comfort, which might have gone unnoticed by the older furniture, I would attempt to use it more than I would use the new and shiny brown bed. The sofa would welcome my occasional naps, and a lot of my possessions suddenly moved to the drawers spotting the TV cabinet. The sudden rush of anxiety that had entered the house with the new brown bed had now transformed into a wave of trusting calm.
