In Brussels it had sat proudly in a former painter's studio. For decades it accommodated many derrières; it was privy to loving embraces and dreadful arguments, to promises and lies, to naps and restless moods. Mostly, people would simply drop themselves into its soft duvet cushions, curl their legs under and nestle for long reads or conversations. The sofa never creaked or complained when little ones jumped right into it feet first and climbed over its back, dropping down to complete the loop and jump in again. The next morning someone would seize the cushions to give them a vigorous boxing and not a few slaps. It all took its toll in inches of loosened gimp, split seams and the graying of its former lovely green sheen. Tired and shabby it ended up in America, in the home of the painter's granddaughter.
Upon hearing the stupendous cost of re-upholstering, she slipped a layer of foam under the cushions to provide firmness where the exhausted springs had collapsed, and hid it in a small room, under a lose cover. Now and then, it would do as a bed for the granddaughter's own young granddaughters. Years passed.
One day, the granddaughter pushed aside the cover and decided a rebirth was in order. She knew that the cost of bringing it back to its former beauty could easily buy two new sofas. But it held her own memories of lingering kisses, and chatty times with cousins, and last conversations with her father. Could she send all those away in a Goodwill truck? Of course not. Instead, she sent the sofa away with two strong upholsterers.
For weeks, she wondered whether she had been right, whether the new color would be a bit much, whether it would suit its new assigned place. Finally, it came home, and it looked more beautiful than she had dared imagine.
Before long, the great-grandson of the painter, also his namesake, came to visit with his lovely companion and in a tender moment they gave the sofa a new memory for a new century.