A teenage couple sits on the loveseat, fighting to trap each other’s thumbs in a battle that makes them both laugh. If she succeeds and captures his thumb, she declares a victory for herself. If he wins, she rules the game a mismatch, and demands a rematch. By this point system, she wins every time. His advantages of size and strength are nothing in the face of her big brown eyes. He loses, but he loses with good cheer because he gets to sit with a pretty girl on the loveseat.
The old dogs love to nap on the couch. If a person lies on the couch, the dogs are ecstatic. They zip around, finding blankets and stuffed toys, before jumping all over the laughing, reclining person in their excitement at sharing naptime. Hooray for people sleeping on the couch! Eventually they settle in, one keeping human feet warm, one curled on the sleeping person’s chest, one stretched beside the napper. Quiet reigns until the doorbell rings.
When the boys started school, they stopped allowing goodnight kisses from me. Kisses embarrassed them, made them look uncool, like mama’s boys. Still little boys, they needed affection as much as they avoided it. Still a mom, I needed affection from my little boys. Their dad and I discovered a way to kiss them goodnight that let them look cool anyway. We kissed our fingertips, and tapped the tops of their heads, passing kisses from lips to hands to heads. As they grew older, the tap grew stronger—never strong enough to damage, but enough to make them laugh and keep from crossing the tenderness limit. One of the boys laughingly avoided the tap, so we would wrestle him to the ground, giggling and shouting, at bedtime every night, trapping his hands and forcing a kiss/tap on the top of his head. Then everyone went to bed with grins for happy dreams.
The kids have grown into young adults, all taller than I. Looking cool in front of their friends no longer matters, and affection is welcome. By tradition, they bend their tall frames down so I can reach their heads, still passing kisses from lips to hand to head.
“My grandson was so cute. He chased the chickens all over the garden, but they didn’t like it much and hid from him.”
“My granddaughter learned to ride a bike. She’s so proud of herself.”
“My grandkids love books about bugs and lizards. They want to know the names of all of them.”
The brother and sister have bragged to, threatened, teased, and supported each other for almost 60 years. She was bigger and older when they were children, and their parents made her take him out with her friends. Today they are still arguing, this time over who has the cutest grandkids, but the argument remains lighthearted and cheerful; no one really wants to hurt feelings.
The living room is empty on very rare occasions. The family has gone out together for a movie premier. Tall bookshelves stand on either side of the piano, stuffed with books and games and sheet music; two entire shelves are dedicated to library books. A family ancestor painted the picture hanging over the piano; it’s a desert scene, beautifully done. Another wall holds a tribute picture to Mel Blanc, the voice of Bugs Bunny and his cartoon colleagues. The wood floor shines in the sun from the picture window. The dogs have broken one corner of the blinds, where they watch out the window for the family to return.
Dusty, dried roses hang from a hook in the corner of the ceiling. They crumble under the touch even of housefly wings. They are left over from a funeral, and no one can bear to throw them away. A spider made his home in them once, but even the cobweb is dry and dusty now, the spider is long gone. Sometimes red and lavender petals fall to the floor, and get swept up with the dog hair.
The living room is not a company-only room. The family lives here, and loves here. On the couch.
