The unpredictable bliss of salvaging a memory from a (sometimes) fruitless writing practice. — These sagging couches, broken with the weight of brother-wrestling, and binge-watching, stained with old chocolate and fresh dog lick. They were once pristine, even measured to fit the room, cushions of single beds, not broken up in twos or threes, representing my hope for kids’ sleepovers, now the soft landing…