Story of a Chair

 There are hot tears running down my cheeks when I wake up a full hour before my alarm is set to go off. I lay quietly for a moment, assessing my feelings: I am unsettled and sorrowful. The last few days have brought many reasons for unrest into my soul; there have been shootings, racial unrest, and lootings near the city high school where I teach. But this feels more private, a personal grief. I fling my arm across to my husband's side of the bed and grab his pillow, bringing it close.

The pillow no longer has Ron's scent. I burrow my face into it, will my heart to continue beating, and the reason for my early morning sadness becomes clear.

The chair.

Last night, my son and I heaved and shoved and pushed my husband's heavy lift chair out to the porch, down the steps, and onto the front lawn where our town's heavy trash truck will pick it up in the morning. Weighing 168 pounds, it was not an easy feat. I clutch Ron's pillow to my chest and remind myself it was equally hard to bring it in.

I'd been looking for a lift chair for my disabled husband for months, but the price tag always made me shudder. The week before Ron's 68th birthday, I saw an ad on Facebook Marketplace: "Lift chair, maroon, good condition, $200." I called the number and arranged to drive down to Kennet Square on Saturday to look at it. My son and I left the house early, telling Ron's hospice nurse we'd be back by noon.

The chair was ugly, but serviceable. We lashed it onto the back of my Nissan with bungee cords and I eased back up Route 1 with my flashers on while Allen kept an eagle eye on the chair. Once home, my strong son managed to push the chair up the hill in front of our house, bully it up the steps, and squeeze it through the doorway. We put it by the fireplace, in perfect line with the television, and made a sign for the seat: Happy Birthday!

I'd wanted the chair to soothe the physical problems of Ron's hurt body; I still had hope that he'd improve. I envisioned the possibility of a future for us, the trip to Hawaii we wanted to take, golden years spent together. 

The first week we had the chair,  Ron pulled on the remote too hard and snapped the wires; I ordered a new one on Amazon. The second week, Ron pushed his weight against the arm and it pulled away from the frame of the chair; Allen turned the chair on its side and hammered the arm in place. The third week, Ron fell against the foot rest and bent the frame; Allen used a hammer to straighten it out. The fourth week, Ron ripped the pocket on the side; I took a tapestry needle and carpet thread and sewed it back. The fifth week, the electrical cord shorted out: Allen went to the hardware store and bought a new one.

By the sixth week, we had no need of a lift chair.

As faint morning light begins to lighten my bedroom, I wrap my arms around Ron's pillow and hug it. There is a light tap at my door. "Mom?" says Allen. "Are you awake?"

"Yes," I say, sitting up in bed. "Come in."

Allen's 6 foot 6 inch frame fills the doorway. 

"Couldn't sleep?" I ask.

"Thinking."

"Me, too." I pat the space on the bed next to me and he sits down, leaning his head against my shoulder. Allen's life on the autism spectrum made accepting his father's death particularly difficult. 

"I know it was time to get rid of Dad's chair," he says. "No one but the cat sat in it now. And I know it made you sad to see it everyday. But it feels like there's a...hole, you know?" He puts his hand on his heart. "Like an empty space." 

I nod. "But it won't always be empty. We'll fill it with new memories and put Dad into them."

He sighs. We sit there, our heads bowed together, and we hear the rumble of the trash truck as it pulls up to our house and squeals to a stop. Allen makes a move to rise; I put a hand on his knee and he slumps back onto the bed.

        "We need to let it go," I whisper and he nods. There are voices, faint and low, drifting across the front         lawn.  Truck doors slam. We hear the rev of the engine as the truck moves away from the  house.

        Allen rises and looks out my bedroom window. "It's gone," he says. "Dad's chair is gone." I join him         at the window, and for a few more moments we gaze out at the empty front yard. Our arms around             each other, we cry.