The Chair


      My brother and I walk out to grandma’s garage and pop open beers.  I snoop around, looking at all of the old stuff scattered about. 

      Little and big things that belonged to grandpa, come into view.  In the corner hangs an ancient rotting chair.  I can remember sitting on it in the corner of grandpa’s little woodworking shed.  My brother and I have our cars parked in the spot where the shed once stood. 

      The bottom of the chair feels cool against my fingers.  It is stained a deep brown.  The rotting wood is damp and cold and scratchy to the touch.  It was one of the few chairs that I would willingly sit on and behave.  I hated sitting.  When I was told to sit anywhere else I would become fidgety and quickly find myself in trouble. 

      I can remember sitting in that chair and swinging my dangling legs side to side.  I loved sitting in that chair and watching him work.  Oftentimes, I would sit across from him at his woodworking bench and play with scraps of wood, painting them, sawing them into different shapes.  

      I see old pieces of his wood.  I pick up one of them and it is the same thin yellow scrap piece he would let me use. I can still smell the saw dust and feel it collecting in my eyes, causing them to water.  I can feel the safety of grandpa’s presence nestled among the relics of the past.

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