And this is Picasso…

Okay; so for those of you who are thinking that I just watched my very last mental marble roll off down the road, I want to assure you that there is indeed a backstory to my having named my couch! And, please know that I do realize how weird it is to name inanimate objects,like furniture. And worse. But here’s the thing; imagine that at one time in your life, you had everything that you ever wanted: a family, a thriving business, friends, a home, vehicles. Imagine that because you worked hard your whole life, you believed that you deserved those things — taking them completely for granted as though they could never disappear.

Now imagine that they do disappear; no more family to have and hold; no home to call your own; no friends; no masonry business; no freedom; nothing. Where you would then find yourself is a place where everything you own fits in a wall locker, and where the tiniest possession becomes something worth fighting for. You would be in a place where old books become treasure, and letters become life preservers. You would be exactly where you belong because of all of the horrible things you did to get there.

When I was close to release from prison, my two remaining friends were trying to make my homecoming as comfortable as possible. When they set up my current home, it lacked furniture, and thus, they set out to find some affordable things to fill the space. Enter Picasso.

When they went to pick him up from the woman who was selling him, they told her of my pending release and explained that I would be starting my life over completely after 22 years in prison. To my friends surprise and delight, the woman refused to accept the agreed upon $150.00, and instead, told them: “Tell your friend welcome home, and that I hope he can get some use out of this old thing.”

“This old thing” has a name now, and Picasso and I sit together quite often — especially when I need to figure out how to navigate this strange new world. He listens to me practice my violin and never complains. He listens to me cry for no reason. He listens to me chat with my grown children for hours — offering a comfortable place where I can finally be there for my daughters who did not have a father to turn to for so long.

For those who are wondering if there are other “strange guests” in my home, I will answer with this picture of Kneena, my exercise bike:

When I was struck by a dump truck in July, the injury required me to have my left quadriceps completely reattached to my knee — hence the need for intense physical therapy, and the continued use of Kneena, spelled with a “K”.

There are others that I will share about one day, but I will leave you now with my sincerest gratitude for being here, and for always being — like Picasso — a comfortable place where I can heal. Thank you.

***