Chair

by CLAIRE ÅKEBRAND

 

             A chair can't rise and say enough, or slump down and say
enough. Nothing looks as heavy as a vacant chair. A chair nearly creaks
with the weight of all who do not occupy it. A chair doesn't know the
pleasure of standing on itself to reach a book or a jam jar from the
back of the cabinet. What does a chair dream about? A carpenter's
warm palms? Flushness with tables? A chair doesn't know the panic
of leaning back too far. Though we pity the three-legged chair, we
cannot take it in. Important things happen in chairs. A chair doesn't
sit by a window at night and admire constellations. Light travels
millions of years just to rest on a chair. In the next life, there will be
no shame in being empty.