One couch for sale—72 inches wide, 34 inches deep, and 30 inches tall—in Vallejo, California.
Momma told me to advertise it as well-loved and half-price and name-brand. But fancy words don’t hide the truth. The cushions sag in the middle, from all those nights Daddy and I spent glued to the Xbox. The armrest is slashed, thanks to my sister and Momma’s sewing scissors. Sure, there’s a fold-out bed, but a TV dinner turned the mattress tomato. If you search hard and long, you’ll find a stale Froot Loop leftover from Saturday mornings. We’ve had interested buyers. The only problem is us.
We live in a trailer park on the corner of Madison and Imola. Around here, some folks come and go. Some folks haven’t moved since 1992. Some folks greet you every morning, while others stare at you with empty eyes.
People are kind enough. One lady gabbled at full tilt, all the while clutching her purse with white knuckles. One man offered business cards and promises, all the while glancing over his shoulder. One family even sat on the couch, all the while avoiding Momma’s tired stare.Before you come, you should know we’re poor. I live with Momma and no one else. I eat free lunches. I wear sneakers two sizes too big.
Momma is a proud woman. She looks life in the eye. She never asked a favor from anyone—not me, not the church, not even God.Until life quit playing fair.So if you come, don’t gawk. Don’t wrinkle your nose. Don’t clench your cash, as if anyone here has the mind to take it from you. What we want,
you can’t give.On this couch I cradled my sister to sleep. On this couch I kissed Daddy goodnight. On this couch I learned that the world is unfair. That
sixteen-wheelers lose their brakes. That daddies and sisters can be here one moment and gone the next.Please, take it away. Momma can’t stand to let it go. I can’t stand to keep it here.
Just be gentle with Momma’s heart when you do.
Momma told me to advertise it as well-loved and half-price and name-brand. But fancy words don’t hide the truth. The cushions sag in the middle, from all those nights Daddy and I spent glued to the Xbox. The armrest is slashed, thanks to my sister and Momma’s sewing scissors. Sure, there’s a fold-out bed, but a TV dinner turned the mattress tomato. If you search hard and long, you’ll find a stale Froot Loop leftover from Saturday mornings. We’ve had interested buyers. The only problem is us.
We live in a trailer park on the corner of Madison and Imola. Around here, some folks come and go. Some folks haven’t moved since 1992. Some folks greet you every morning, while others stare at you with empty eyes.
People are kind enough. One lady gabbled at full tilt, all the while clutching her purse with white knuckles. One man offered business cards and promises, all the while glancing over his shoulder. One family even sat on the couch, all the while avoiding Momma’s tired stare.Before you come, you should know we’re poor. I live with Momma and no one else. I eat free lunches. I wear sneakers two sizes too big.
Momma is a proud woman. She looks life in the eye. She never asked a favor from anyone—not me, not the church, not even God.Until life quit playing fair.So if you come, don’t gawk. Don’t wrinkle your nose. Don’t clench your cash, as if anyone here has the mind to take it from you. What we want,
you can’t give.On this couch I cradled my sister to sleep. On this couch I kissed Daddy goodnight. On this couch I learned that the world is unfair. That
sixteen-wheelers lose their brakes. That daddies and sisters can be here one moment and gone the next.Please, take it away. Momma can’t stand to let it go. I can’t stand to keep it here.
Just be gentle with Momma’s heart when you do.
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