The Chairs of our Lives
My grandmother’s chair
The chair’s journey began in a grandfather’s woodwork station
In the garage,
Where he spent his retirement hours
Repairing furniture for the mom-and-pop furniture store down the street,
And making the dining room chairs for the table we won in the raffle,
And building the grandfather clock that chimes in the entryway.
A grandmother decided
That lemon yellow would look nice in the living room
Next to the flowered curtains,
Where she sat when her granddaughters made up dances —
Smiling and clapping to the music with her silver hair in a bun,
Listening for the kitchen timer to go off
When the casserole was ready.
We only saw him in pants and a button-down shirt.
We only saw her in a dress, usually with a thin belt but not always.
When that generation died and passed from this life
To the eternal heaven they believed in,
The chair went from the grandparents’ house to the children now grown into parents
And slowly lost the smell
Of its original home.
Little boys made the chair’s seat into a train station
Or a battleground for plastic superheroes,
And children stood on its arms
Balancing in a game of the-floor-is-lava.
In the chair they watched movies curled up in a blanket with strep throat.
Little girls dressed their dolls and sat them in the chair
Which sat near the entryway
To greet them when they returned from school.
Once the chair was taken to the upholstery shop —
Restuffed,
Stains removed,
Wood polished,
And brought back to the house
Where children grew into teens
Who studied with their laptops between its arms
And made out crammed two-by-two into the seat made for one,
And then sobbed in grief when the relationship was over.
The chair anchored the conversation circle
In the room where we celebrated
Birthdays and graduations and retirements.
And gathered to grieve lives lost.
On this chair the bags sat
Ready for the college move-out
Bags full of makeup mirrors and photos and blankets
Ready to accompany the child who is adult in legality only
But still needs reminders and that one stuffed animal from home.
The chair has teeth marks on its legs
Where the puppy once chewed
And marks on the fabric where the now-old dog with storm anxiety nibbles when he hears thunder.
And the children go off and yes, they come back, but the mid-life humans who were once the grandchildren and are now the parents who will become the grandparents —
They stay.
But at what time in our lives
And what makes us decide
And who determines
That the chairs of our life
Are now ready for heavy trash day
And moved to the curb?
The chair that inspired me to write this in the parking lot of middle school drop-off.
The advice and opinions herein are by no means meant to be a substitute for professional medical advice. Please contact your personal physician, mental health provider or health care professional for medical advice. Opinions are my own.