My father bought the maroon chair in the open-aired market in town the day of my second birthday. The salesman said it was hand-crafted in New England and would last a lifetime. So my dad bought it and carried it home on his back. When he got home he brought it up the stairs and put the new chair in my room, next to the crib and sat in it. My mother passed me to him and he read to me from my favorite books.
As I got older, the chair was moved around the house serving different functions, once as a chair in my parents room, then again as a chair in the guest room, also a chair in the garage, and then that extra chair brought out when a guest comes over for dinner.
When I left for college, to pursue my own life and accomplish my goals, I lost track of the chair, almost forgetting about it. Until now while I helping my mother move. She is moving to a smaller house- she is much too old now to maintain the house we grew up in. As we pack her things we reminisce over family artifacts.
It’s been 25 years since my father read to me in that chair. Now, I no longer have my father, but I still have the chair. I found it in the attic. I brought down, cleaned it up, painted it, and made it new again. It now sits in my child’s room next to his crib and now I sit in it and read to my son his favorite books.