The Tale of the Tattered Red Sofa

Lessons gleaned and memories unearthed from an imperfect object that I've held onto for over a decade

My fiancé asks cheekily, “why do you still hold on to that thing?” 

“That old red sofa? It's more comfortable than these modern ones,” I retort.

In my head I quickly justify that it's good for my ailing back — how it’s some goldilocks ratio of comfort and supportiveness. And the truth is, because it was purchased over two decades ago (after my family’s transcontinental move to Los Angeles), the quality of sofa is objectively better than the keenly-marketed mass-produced furniture of the last 15 years. It was purchased at a (now defunct) local mom-and-pop furniture store¹, at a reasonable cost, and used quality materials and leathers.²

But today when the sofa reminded me of its age, I realized my desire to keep it had little to do with its form or function; it was the sofa I grew up on. Turns out this is an object that carries weight to me; it’s an anchor to my family. It connects me to them no matter where they are — it brings me figurative comfort beyond its physical support, a connection that our fast-paced, throwaway, consumer culture threatens to eradicate. 

I’d venture that memories embedded in objects like this are the reason why my brother has kept my grandmother’s old floral armchair, or my parents kept her white leather sofa set. Maybe it's why I've subconsciously refused to abandon the red sofa in any of the three moves I've made in the last decade. Or why I felt the need to convince my parents to take the matching love seat that I had no room for.

These mementos unfold past events into the present moment.

This red sofa cushioned my family through countless comedies we still quote to this day. It cradled my brother, fast asleep, as I covered him with our Mom’s hand-knit blanket. It soaked up tears shed from middle-school bullying and high-school heartbreaks. It backed my family as we supported each other. It represents the last time we all lived together under one roof.

“The objects we possess…They tell us things about ourselves that we need to hear in order to keep ourselves from falling apart.” — Mihaly Csikszentmihaly

This morning, when I sat down to start my writing routine, I noticed a crease in the leather that had split into a gash. My initial reaction was feeling as if I had been wounded. And—like new, unworn leather—I stiffened up at the fear of deterioration of something I held onto so deeply. I started cycling through all of the memories the sofa held, but—to my surprise—instead of constriction I felt my muscles relax as acceptance and gratitude slowly washed over me. Old red had bolstered me once again.

This sofa has a quarter of a lifetime ingrained in its leather. Its cracks and creases represent a life well-lived. The growing number of wrinkles mirror the laugh and frown lines furrowed in my parents’ faces. And its most recent imperfection is another beautiful yet poignant memory embedded in this well-worn good.

I can choose to see the scars in the sofa as reminders of experiences; just like the slightly discolored skin on my knees from the scrapes when I fell learning how to ride a bike in my family’s backyard. Maybe 20 years from now I’ll look back at this tear in the sofa and remember it as the place where I started my writing habit.

My fiancé, Meagan, bought this beautiful mid century-modern teal sectional less than five years ago that we are already talking about replacing because of its sagging springs and deflating bolsters. Paralleling similar stories, we realized how this new mass-produced sofa wasn’t made to last or be repaired. That we’d be told—like I was when I took my recently acquired 1950s sewing machine in for repairs³—that we’re better off replacing the sofa then trying to get it fixed.

When we discard disrepaired objects, or seek only immaculate items — aren’t we subconsciously telling ourselves that we are intolerant of imperfections in ourselves and others? A well-worn thing should be tattered — it’s a proud sign of usage. When goods aren’t built to last—and be kept—we inadvertently lose objects that moor us to memories that make up our identities.

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Is there a seemingly mundane object hiding in plain sight nearby that anchors you to a special memory — some hand-me-down that you’ve been subconsciously holding onto?

1. Not screen-shopped on Amazon, Wayfair, or marveled at in some ad seen on TikTok.

2. Essentially it’s not of the direct-to-consumer, drop-ship, Instagram-era of sofas that are “constructed of sawdust compressed and bonded with cheap glue, simple brackets in place of proper joinery, substandard spring design, [and] flimsy foam.” (via: Why Are (Most) Sofas So Bad?)

3. When my local sewing machine and vacuum repair man handed me back my fixed-up vintage sewing machine, he remarked how things used to be built to last and how he would tell customers it’s not worth trying to repair their modern, plastic sewing machines, and it probably just makes more sense to buy a new one.