Her elegant French-knot roses
lost their splendor long ago;
where soft, pink petals once danced demurely
across the tufted, silver sateen throne,
now pale, lackluster threads pill
like discolored dandruff on a dull gray suit.
But like a seer with her crystal ball,
I sit—gingerly—and beckon back my yesterdays.
Every party, every pout,
every heartache, every hope,
every guest who passed through the portals
of my childhood home is there, somewhere,
in this chair.
If it were animal, I would shoot it
and put it out of its misery.
If it were human, I would offer up
a prayer for its soul.
But it is a chair
with arms split and broken,
legs frail and worn,
a seat ripped open and sagging,
a broken back, jagged and torn.
And so I caress its pitiful frame
like a cherished friend,
wrap it gently, as if binding its wounds,
and leave my life to linger, intact,
in waiting for another day.

© 2006 by Jayne Jaudon Ferrer.
Used with permission.