The Isolation Journals - Day 6

Today's prompt comes from a 6-year-old boy who has spent time in isolation battling brain cancer.  It always catches me delightfully off-guard when a child says something profound. This kid's ability to be playful even when facing a tremendous fight makes me miss the daily little weird chats I used to have with kids at work. 

Once, a 2nd grader asked me out of the blue, "Do you feel lonely when you're alone?"  I paused to think about how to answer him seriously, and told him that was a very deep question.  He stared me dead in the face and started singing Hello darkness, my old friend...and then took off running after his friends.  Right?

Prompt:  Okay, close your eyes. Maybe lie down so you’re cozy? A blanket is nice. Okay. What do you see? At first, it’s dark in there. But if you really look, you will start to see pictures. Maybe it’s a bear with claws, or an ice cream cone, or a memory. Like, cuddling your mom. Maybe it’s words, like LOVE or DANCING. Sometimes it’s just tickly lights. Whatever you see, write about it. Really explain it until it becomes a story. I like to draw what I see, too.

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I've been writing each morning in bed, first thing, before breakfast or coffee.  Before the stink of the day is on me, as my grandmother likes to say.  My soundtrack is my own growling stomach, so I believed there were two possible outcomes to this closed-eye visioning exercise.  Sleep, or a psychedelic onslaught of everything in my pantry I might concoct for breakfast.  Would visions of electric oatmeal lurk behind my eyelids?

Given my constant hunger, it was a strange shape that materialized in the half-dark.  First a vaguely oval-shaped, bluish blob - a baguette?  A pancake?  It quickly sharpened into the outline of my grandmother's couch, cornflower blue and cream plaid.

That's a curious recollection for a Monday morning in a pandemic (are we still naming the days of the week, is that still a thing?), but it just might signify something.  Does picturing a couch mean I'm desperate for therapy?  I mean, probably, but let's dig deeper.

We have taken countless family photos gathered on that couch.  Too many adults and progressively more children over the years, crammed between the arm rests and spilling onto the rug in front.  I spent untold hours on that couch reading, doing homework, talking on the phone.  

That couch is even the subject of a decades-old running joke between my mom and me.  I mean, you had to be there, but once, my grandmother admonished me for farting on her couch.  She emerged from the kitchen, cigarette in hand, and yelled, "Don't ever do that again, the smell will never come out of the fibers!"  Each time I visit her house, I'm tempted to check (I don't).  That will never come out of the fibers.

The point is, if you'll allow me to psychoanalyze myself, the couch is a phallus.  No wait, that came out wrong.  The couch is a symbol of my family, and togetherness, and safety.  I miss my family, far away in New Jersey.  Not knowing when I'll be able to see them again is sad and scary.  Aside from getting out of bed and making breakfast, I can't think of anything more comforting right now than settling down on that couch with a good book and just really letting one rip.

The Couch.  Judging by the sneer, circa 1999?