My Dad’s Chair

by maggie

Yesterday I was thinking about stuff, and how it passes though your life. When we were little my Dad always sat in a bent wood arm chair at the table. When he died my brother had the chair. I would recognise it anywhere: the colour, the grain on the seating. When I tried to draw it though I wasn’t sure of its geometry. What was the back like? How many legs? Legs?

Here’s a drawing.

This is not a chair

This is not a chair

Then I realised that yesterday Dad would have been been 72
Happy Birthday Dad.

MER

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