The Chair

There is a chair that is my own. No one else sits in this chair that looks like every other chair. And this applies to all. When my brother was deployed, we moved his chair to the back of the dining table because no one was allowed to sit on his chair. So we could feel his presence in his absence, my parents said in a Spanish expression that loses eloquence when translated to English. When he returned home, he chose not to return to his chair.

My chair is on the side of the dining table, facing the bookshelf, its side to the door. I like being able to look into the room, to focus on the people in it and listen to their stories. Lately there are no stories beyond the bookshelf that I spent thirty hours cleaning over break, skipping sleep and breakfast to ensure my siblings had it ready by the time they returned home from school the next day. Only they never wanted it. Now it stores the school flyers of past events, the Legos that they're not allowed to touch when they yell at each other over blown up Minecraft houses, and charging cables for different phones that curtain the books. Dad tries to fill the unstoried space, but his constant switching of language quickly limits the audience to just me, and I don't always listen beyond my own thoughts.

My chair is upstaged by almost everything else in the room - the paintings, the birdhouse, the books, even the holiday lights bordering the three-pane window. Do not mistake any of this for a complaint. The slightly sunken cushion and dull wood polish is a testament to the time I spend sitting in great company, be it my family or such artifacts. I'm simply grateful to have a seat around this table.