There is no couch in the living room,
just a dining room table that has been passed down through several generations
and holds memories in the scratches of its finish,
all four of the matching chairs for the table,
and a pair of collapsable papasan chairs.
And a bean bag.
And a coffee table.
And a bookshelf that looks like a little ladder
that houses books with black, blue, and white covers,
chosen because they were placed there in the winter
and never got swapped out.
It’s not uncommon to choose to sit on the floor in there.
It’s not uncommon to spill a little bit of paint on the table,
adding memory stains in addition to its memory scratches.
It is not uncommon to laugh there,
a real big, deep belly laugh
that goes on and on and on.