My Chair (CP 2)

My chair rarely sits evenly on carpet or floorboards. One of its legs, like my own, is slightly longer than the rest. My chair wobbles precariously from the left to the right, from friend to enemy, from honesty to deception. Be careful when you use it; vicious splinters jut dangerously from the seat. One splinter screams, “Where will the future take you?” while another bellows, “Be careful whom you trust”. These are hard to dig out with fingernails, my friends. The chair back bends back for the brother I’ve carried along for far too long. The parallel slats are now permanently perpendicular from sudden deaths and shocking revelations—as if they lean forward to make sure they heard correctly. My chair is rickety, worn, and tired.
But my chair refuses to take its place by the side of the road; to face the callous-gloved garbage-men of tomorrow’s dawn. My chair has a heart carved into the bottom of the seat, ancient, yes, but refusing to fade. My chair has a shocking bit of blue paint clinging to its spine, a reminder that even the cloudiest day has a bold sky behind it. My chair can be used at weddings, funerals, birthdays and poker games—it is very versatile.
I’ve carried this chair for nearly a quarter of a century; through four presidents, three houses, and countless experiences both good and bad. There were moments when I nearly buckled under the weight of it—the fear of failure, the endless work, the burden of being the oldest child—but my knees stayed strong; because when I hold my chair at just the right angle, at just the right time of day, the sun has a way of shining through the wicker seat and falling gently on my head; and it reminds me that although sometimes the weight can be unbearable, it is my weight, it is my story, and it is my privilege to carry it for one more day.