Tuesday

Every Chair


Every chair in our house once had leaves who fed it. Every chair in our house once knew a bird flying over and around it. Every chair in our house, in a formerly root-bound life, knew a bee, a squirrel or possibly a deer. Or maybe had a raccoon raise her surly brood in a pocket, the small scratch of her nightly climbs perhaps satisfying a certain itch.  Several knew the pleasures of an egg-filled nest.

Some of these chairs once flowered, some did not.  All knew the wind and rain.  All had the sun come up over them each and every day.  All knew moonlight and the ecstasy of lightning. All knew the silence of a dry season and the terror of ice.   Every chair in our house knew these things.

And now they know me.  The curve of my body relaxing into them.  They know how I move. They know my many moods.  They have heard my laughter and felt the sharp needling weight of my anger.  I have drug and carried them across my floors.  I have polished them and beaten the dust from their cushions. They have known my tears, small and salt filled, hardly like water at all.  They have held my friends in a sure embrace.

What part of them may still live in the memory of tree I do not know.  I have let go the hands who brought them from tree to chair and by this dissolution into meaninglessness I am returned to the chair's beginnings in a time of leaf and blossom.

And in this leaf and blossom time I, too, am allowed  a life lived outside the window. Outside the biosphere. A life, it seems, I may have really never left after all.