BY ERICA RICHMOND
Erica Richmond currently lives near Toronto, though she is often thinking up new adventures. Copyright is held by the author.
There’s an empty space where a couch should be and perhaps it is a metaphor … for something.
Perhaps this space is an acknowledgement of my suspected commitment issues. After all there is a very good chance that this next couch could be a part of our family for the rest of my life; passed down to the next generations landing in the common room of a small Northern Ontario university residence. It will appear in countless family photographs and receive multiple tags on Face Book. And I have only enough space to commit to one couch. One couch to last a lifetime. And so plans to occupy this space are quickly thwarted: not enough money, not enough time, not enough selection. Even the sight of furniture stores leaves me gasping to release the anxiety that has filled my lungs. The same feeling I once experienced on a first date with a hopeful young daydreamer who went into detail describing his future wedding. By the time he listed his groomsmen I think I was purple. I couldn’t date for an entire year after that.
Perhaps this space serves as a reminder of how I started.
Of how I left.
Of how leaving was all that mattered.
Of how I learned to let go of all things that do not hold a place in my heart and even some things that do.
Of how the thought of forgetting terrifies me more than remembering.
And even though I’ve re-acquired belongings; this empty space remains … as a metaphor … for something.