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by Dave
Rated: E · Essay · Personal · #1836057
A potential submission for the anthology "Sofas I've Slept On."
With its wicker construction creaking every time you moved, the old sofa on the screened-in porch of me Uncle Packy’s summer cottage holds many fond memories.

It sat right there beside the speed bag he had used so often in his younger days. He was a champion boxer in the Navy, you see. Leastwise, that’s the way he told it. He wove many a yarn about his travels and achievements whilst I perched spellbound on said creaky sofa, watching him demonstrate the ratta-tat-tat technique on his treasured punching bag.

Those tales continued as we took the rowboat out on the pond in search of the great-grand pappy of all rainbow trout. His recounting of visits to Hong Kong and Singapore was accompanied by the gentle sound of water sloshing against the hull every time he reached for another worm from a “Good to the last drop” coffee can.

Soggy afternoons found me napping in that wicker sofa, with its gnarly lumps softened by a couple of floweredy cushions. The rhythm of the rain on the roof sang a lullaby that quickly carried me off to dreamland.

In the evening, Auntie Selena laid a colorful patchwork quilt over me sleeping body as a chorus of crickets joined the creaking sofa in a wonderful serenade: chirp chirp, squeak squeak.

Me Uncle Packy’s creaky wicker sofa was the center of my universe throughout that unforgettable summer. Too soon, August morphed into September, and I had to rejoin the mundane world of schoolwork and daily chores.

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