The Blue Chair


He lived alone for years after his dearest darling wife had passed away. Then one day, he went too, just short of 100 years.

Everything was sold away. Except for an old blue chair.

The chair was there when a young man brought his new bride home. A wedding gift, made for them by his father.

Often in their early days it was their love nest, and he would hug and kiss her while she nestled softly in his arms. It supported him as he waited eager and nervous for the news of the birth of his son; and, then again, his baby girl. So many times he would sit there helping to prepare the dinner vegetables. His specialty was string beans; laying a sheet or two of an old newspaper on the table to catch the trimmings.

It gave a trusty lift for reaching burned out light bulbs. He told stories there with the grand children sitting at his feet. He even stood on it once and conducted an orchestra as a concert blared on the radio. It served for a fair share of spankings to naughty children. So many times he sat there at the kitchen table mourning the loss of his dear bride.

The blue chair was there for it all, a witness to a rich life of times and people. Now, after all that, it was standing abandoned at the curb waiting for the trash pick-up.

One morning as I walked by, it spoke to me. It promised a wonderful story of times and people.

The chair had lost none of its gracefulness, even for the chips and the worn paint. The color too, had lost none of its beauty. I took it home. It’s an old chair and fragile, so I sit on it reverently.

It was true to its promise. As I sit there a story is unfolding. Not of detail and color and shape, from other times and people. But my own life. Sitting there, simply present with me, silent support as my own memories loose their fascination and concern.

Always in its long life a friend, and now to me.







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