By the side of the old velvet green couch, Samantha placed one stool from the counter, as I dragged one of the French country chairs from the table to the center of the family room. We were always able to depend on the couch to be our base. She is the architect and I am the engineer. She designed what our castle would look like while I figured out how to execute her seemingly unachievable vision. She grabbed the sheets, Mini mouse, tinker bell, the ugly floral ones, while I grabbed the hair ties, ribbons, pillows that would make up my tool box that would secure her interact roof in place. Though I am five years younger my brain has always worked differently than hers allowing for this perfect orchestra of vision and logic to blend together. Samantha’s vision could only be seen in her brain, and so she often became frustrated when I failed too read her mind. A frustrated conversation led to a compromise, my ideas once again take charge. I pulled a little to hard on the worn out, pilling mini mouse sheets, ripping them from the stool, but Samantha’s quick reflex caught our roof before it collapsed. We both laughed, Samantha laughing too hard as usual, her rounded cheeks turning red, and her freckles crimson. Her eyes close as the cheerful loud noise sings out. Her laugh made me laugh and we continued so long our stomachs felt turned inside out. This was our little fort, made just for the two of us, on an afternoon that Samantha didn’t have something better to do or a friend to see, she spent it with me. It was these afternoons that made me forget the times she excessively teased or punishingly ignored me.  We laid there on the floor talking nonsense back forth. I do not remember the words but I do remember the feeling of complete and utter joy.

The old green couch saw us through every important transition in our lives. The couch was introduced to us in Maryland, where we built our forts and followed us to Massachusetts where our family dynamic completely transformed.  Our father, a businessman, was quickly promoted several times, during a four-year period. Dad went away for three weeks to china, leaving us, three identical girls at home. This common occurrence did not disrupt out lives, we just ate dinner an hour earlier then usual, since we were not forced to wait for dad’s late arrival. Often on these nights, the three of us would be on the couch in our pjs watching a movie. Mom would sit in the middle wearing her old tattered grey sweatpants and the red “Sandy’s Coffee” sweatshirt, a relic from the past. Samantha would sit to the left, shoving her feet under moms thighs to keep them warm, covered in the blue comforter dating back to mom’s childhood bedroom. I was tucked under moms arm, my head on her lap. “How about taco bell for dinner” mom would ask us, with a rebellious tone. We scurried to mom’s Ford Expedition, as old as the couch, going through the drive through as to avoid getting dressed. I remember mom trying so hard to make life special so that maybe we wouldn’t notice the one absent member. I grew to find it awkward when dad was actually home; it was like he was intruding on our special nights. 

It was on the green couch, three years after moving in, that my parents told me about the divorce and that my dad was moving out. Samantha had already known, and known for a while. They all agreed to keep me in the dark till the day he would leave. Samantha was angry; I remember that, so angry that she wouldn’t see my dad unless my mom joined us for a year. For the first time in my life, I had my dad completely to myself every weekend. That is what I remember. On the Saturday mornings that my dad would pick me up, he’d always say “Hey Sandy, do you and Samantha want to join us for lunch at the Mandarin?” He was always so awkward about it, but then again he had never before been forced to hang out with us by himself. For a whole year it was these awkward lunches that gave him an insight into my sister’s life. It was there he’d learn about how Samantha latest art project was coming along or how the field hockey game on Tuesday went. I just sat there watching as one strange sentence after another was past between them. Today I know why she was angry, she was angry because it was his fault, but back then I remember only being confused.

The green couch became moms study couch. A month or two after the separation my mom began studying for her real-estate license. It was then that Samantha’s and I’s relationship changed. Mom was now working for the first time in five years. Samantha was now my babysitter, after school, on weekends, days off. She was the boss, and I didn’t like it but neither did she. When it was just the two of us, we were no longer building castles, she was no longer on the couch with me, she was upstairs, locked away in her room. It was just I on the couch. Divorces can do that, change relationships, change the roles you must fill. Samantha pre-divorce was a regular teenager but the divorce threw her into adulthood. I am still unsure today, nine years later, whether it was pressure from my parents or her own choice to transform. Never the less, Samantha was in charge. For three months I watched “High School Musical” after school everyday. I knew the songs, the dances; I could preform the film from the green couch, all completely from memory. To my dismay, Samantha did not feel the same way about Troy Bolton, so often she’d complain “Allie, if you don’t shut it off, I’ll call mom”. Those three words made my skin crawl. I always called mom first to complain, beating Samantha, always the first to tattle tail. It was there, in these moments, Samantha and I became more and more distant. The divorce, and our new roles were deconstructing our relationship.

The green couch was a location were all the best news and the worst news was shared. It was where Samantha opened her acceptance letter college. I was jumping out of my skin; I was excited for her to leave. At this point four years after the separation, Samantha and I were no longer those little girls building a castle. Trying to relate to her was like trying to climb up a Rockwall with no footholds. Months pass, it’s mid august, I am sitting on the fluffy worn out green couch watching Samantha organize her bags and boxes. “Where are my sheets mom?” she sounded angry but I heard the slight cringe to her voice that let me know she was scarred. “Are they with your comforter?” mom trying so hard to be helpful, but Samantha’s system only made sense to her, mom and I only saw a jumble of bags and things. She grabbed them and tossed them aside. A flash of relief, then something else, a small tint in her eyes and the slight shrug to her shoulders, I know what she is thinking, “what would we do with out her”. Our mom has always been as constant as the couch in the family room, always there to find the missing sheets, a small smile that says “you got this”, and for all those special nights just the three of us.

  A divorce is notable for the havoc it wreaks. Samantha was built using concrete and Steel beams, independent, rarely swaying. I was built with wood and nails, sensitive and vulnerable. When the divorce blew through our home, Samantha’s solid structure crumbled and my weak structure stood firm. It was this notable change that knocked us off our once unified course. Samantha had to repair the cracks in her foundation herself before we could stand at the same height together, it was only then that we could be sit together on the green couch again.
The green couch moved out of our family home, to Boston, where my sister was going to live during her second year of college. Though losing the green couch from the living room felt like loosing a member of the family, my only comfort was that this reliable velvet green couch was now going to support and comfort my sister in her home. The moment the green couch slid up against her apartment wall, a calm smile passed across her round cheeks and I heard a gentle sigh. We sat there together constructing the black IKEA nightstand; I was once again the engineer, and in the moment she read aloud the instructions, I missed her. She was no longer the girl from high school. The transformation I saw in her face was unbelievable. Her dark brown eyes seemed lighter, full of life and happiness. I remember how angry she had been, how unrecognizable, but today she was the same architect, who imagined the impossible. I watch as she cringes to the sound of the Styrofoam sliding through the box, making me disregard of it before she will help. She laughs as I drop a stubborn side of the table we are constructing together, the smell of the factory chemicals float through the air. It is not a table, more like a three-dimensional jigsaw puzzle. Together we have to piece each unidentifiable side together.  She says that I’m doing it wrong, but I point out that I just have the wrong piece, so as we manipulate the black jigsaw pieces, putting together the sides with screws, nails, screw drivers, hammer, our adult tool box, we are once again those little girls building a castle.