I remember that settee like I’d sat on it only yesterday. Seventies soft brown tones with a corner unit at one end that marked an L-shaped pause. A hard edge to separate the soft contours. Cluttered with compilation tapes, coffee cups, Refreshers and Rubik’s cubes. A school day refuge, a Sunday lounge, a wet day den where we pretend, a sick bay snug we go to mend, a space to chat, to eat our tea, so many moments passed on that tired settee. Now I stand as an adult in that foreign country. I see the old television, its squat fat torso pointing into the room, above the fireplace dad made. All of us huddled around, passing time as place. Those moments return to haunt me. Corners forming too little, too late. Returning nothing but the shapes we make.