The chair
was a pause in the room.
Its legs rooted
into a square of shadow
the sun refused to cross.
Wood darkened there,
learning stillness
the way old bones do.
Nothing touched it.
Not reverence,
not fear.
Years softened the joints.
Memory worked inward,
loosening what once knew
how to bear.
Then weight.
Unfamiliar.
Careless as the present always is.
The chair did not protest.
It opened.
It released.
A thunderstorm
breaking inside a house.
Afterward,
the room leaned differently.
Something unkept
finally lay down.

 

 

 

 

 

Photo by MonkWork on Unsplash