Her Chair

He sat in her chair. The faded floral chintz with Queen Anne legs. It didn't really suit him. The curves and bumps touched him in the wrong places. It was her chair, embodying her shape. 

He shifted, settling deeper into her chair. A light pitter-patter of raindrops brushed the windowpane as he sipped tea, focusing on a lone goldcrest splashing and preening in the lush garden's puddles. Together they'd turned weeds and rot into a wonderland of flora and fauna. Built a life from the ground up. 

It soothed him to sit in her chair. Gazing at his chair. Sturdy. Its umber leather worn thin by time. Decades of nights by the fire. Quiet. Just the two of them at first, becoming three, then four. As time moved on, how he missed the laughter of children. 

They'd once traded chairs and laughed at the wrongness of trying to fill someone else's shoes. It was a silly thing. They embraced as they crossed paths, to switch to the comfort they had each created. Apart, yet together. Comfort together; not losing themselves. Creating chairs worn by time. He rose from her chair to fill his own. It was a lonely thing, seeing her chair empty. He watched the goldcrest shake off rain and soar. 


By Lisa H. Owens
5/29/2021
Inspired by a Music Prompt.
See video narration  on YouTube.
Narration, Production and Music by Alan Johnson
Featured on The World Comes to You - Part-two [@54:06]

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