200 Couches

It’s been a lot of years since I felt like I had a home.  Not a bed, but a home.  A place where I can invest my effort and it’s mine. I just bought a house.  It’s terrifying and real, and also surprisingly concrete, cogent, and natural.  I guess anyone who buys-in on a big-big-thing feels that way.  It’s a combination of euphoria, wariness, forgetfulness and memory.  It would be great if there were a word for it.  Maybe the Germans have one, because they have words for everything. My mom marvels sometimes though about how I travel.  About how I keep up with friends miles away, years away, lives away.  I make a phone call and reignite that special friendship from years ago, if only for a few beers, and then I crash on their couch.  And it all sort of feels that same sort of euphoria wary forgetful memory.  Because if anything I’ve ever done in life, friendship is that big-big-thing.  I don’t always get a chance to say it, but it’s big. My friends are as much of a home as anything I’ve known. I’ve slept on couches all over.  Floors too.  As my friends mature, buy houses, get guest bedrooms, my accommodations have improved, but the spirit is the same.  And I’m as happy to sleep on a lawn as a bed, just to see my friends being and living well. I want my friends to know that my couch is yours as well.  Soon it will be a guest bedroom in a stately old brick colonial-revival.  I’m proud of the place, but more proud...