Leather & Wood.

I read a lot of obituaries at work.

It's just the nature of the job, I guess.

They're always written through tear-streaked,

rose-colored glasses —

Telling stories about how great Mom was,

how wonderful Dad was,

how life was so grand when Uncle So-and-So entered the room.

But behind closed doors, we hear the pain.

We see the anger.

We learn the family secrets that were never meant to be told.

We know just how frilly and fabricated those words really are.

We got rid of the old couch today —

The one I used to crash on when she was working late,

and you'd haul me off to the office

in the middle of the night

because some server blew up

and I didn’t have anywhere else to go.

Funny thing is —

I had no trouble writing what my friends

are now calling

a eulogy for the couch.

It’s full of quips and dumb little references,

and — dare I say —

I even made someone tear up

over that hunk of leather and wood.

But when I try to imagine writing something for you,

when that fateful day eventually comes,

I can’t think of anything

rose-colored

or frilly

or even halfway honest

that doesn’t just sound like

“I guess he gave me a really great couch.”