Favorite Chair

It is night now, as it usually is about this time, and I’m sitting across from your favorite chair. What was your favorite chair. In my mind it is still yours. I never thought of you as being sick. I never thought of you as frail or weak in any way. You’d read to me from those epic stories that were intended to build young boys and girls into heroes, but I’d also imagine the lead character with your sense of humor, and the same scratch on the left side of your glasses. You were old enough to remember what it meant to make a promise, and young enough to still dream. You were strong enough to build your own home, and humble enough to imbue it with love. My memories will change a little bit over time, but they will always remain with me. When I can’t sleep I curl up in your chair, next to the memory I cling to, and I count the threads on the tassels of your blanket until I can at least close my eyes. You are with me always.






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Being heard, stirred, and perhaps cured by life's many hidden images and the written-spoken word.
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