Plump and portly, the weathered old chair was a favorite of ours.

As children, rough and rowdy, we’d climb that chair

like it was Mount Everest. All the way to the top—until we reached the stars.

 

Gigantic and green, that chair was the hill 

on which we determined who was king.

And when, inevitably, one of us took a spill,

 

that wrinkled old chair would envelop us in its arms.

 

That old chair stood, proud and mighty, as each of us perched

trying to fit in the picture.

When something was lost, under the chair was the first place searched.

 

Slowly, and then quite quickly, the chair of our childhood

began to shrink.

One by one, our heads rose above the top of the weathered wood.

 

Our favorite childhood chair no longer held 

our hopes and dreams.

But, instead, sadly clutched our broken pieces each time we were felled.

 

Knocked down like a tree.

Uprooted.

Brought down to our knees.

 

The chair was always the place we ran to cry

when life knocked us down.

When one of us lied. When we were feeling shy. When we had to say goodbye.

 

And we had to say goodbye… far too often.

 

But we always came back

to the chair,

plump and portly,

gigantic and green,

wrinkled and old,

proud and mighty.

 

The chair of our childhood.

The chair that held our stories

and our tears.

 

But most importantly, 

the chair that held us all together.