We Sat in the Love Seat

The van pulled over at noon.

A woman in the driver’s seat—
her face a creased, from pulling some miles—
opened the van, wrestled the furniture
from its dark belly.

Her arms were thin,
struggling to hold the weight
of our needs—and our wants.

She shifted the boxes to a dolly,
rolled it over the pavement—
then lifted them again,
left them at our door.

We stood there, thinking—
that this delivery
is the gateway to something bigger…
that our rooms, our moments, our love
might finally find their grace;
they would no longer dangle
from the precipice—
always threatening to come undone.

We got to the task
of assembling pieces together,
and we thought—
it would be easy.

Six hours passed.
It turned out to be
much harder than we had imagined—
screws resisting,
panels refusing to fit in slots,
often requiring the soft persuasion of a mallet
(which the manual had failed
to mention).

As the daylight drained,
we finally sat on what we had assembled—
our arms aching, minds wondering:
is this really the magic to cure
what ails us?

Lost in our thoughts—
we sat huddled
in the love seat together.