A Crying Sofa

On the many occasions where I visited a country for a vacation, I always have the urge to visit the old part of the city to view old apartments, old homes, and my favorite - old Victorian or Gothic mansions. Even when I drive by the old south of London - Ontario, I get the shivers. My mom knows. I inherited this interest from her.

As I step inside, the old rustic walls start welcoming me. I look at the touristic group that is ahead of me in the mansion. The guide starts talking about the history of when the mansion was built and by who. He focuses on the architecture of the house. I then look back at the walls. Although they are painted with classic floral patterns over a sophisticated beige template, the walls look gloomy. As I put my hands on the wall, it gives me a brittle smile. I lean my head onto it and close my eyes while inhaling a smell of the Victorian era. What ever happened to this mansion of powerful beauty, yet of potent despairing ambiance, I ask the wall. 

Over centuries, and almost every day, I have been looked at blankly by paying tourists, the wall says. The tour guide keeps talking about the history of when we were built and by whom. He fails to focus on the bibliography of the people that once lived here. After all, what is a mansion without its inhabitants? People change. Here, we all miss our inhabitants. Surely, there were sad days. That Chesterfield sofa behind you was crying the other day during our closing hours and said he misses Aly. Who is Aly, I ask the wall. Aly’s original name was Alaska. Like the midnight sun in Alaska, she shines joy and glee even during the darkest and coldest days. She would spring out of bed even before the servants, and sit on that very sofa to enjoy a book, with her pure white nightgown still on.