The Chair

When I was in Highschool, I wrote a story about a chair, a magical old wicker chair that took you to a different place and time not realizing at the time the story wasn’t of some magical chair, the real story was of the rocking chair that had sat in my Nonna’s living room forever.

The chair now sits in my living room, in a different home, not the one with the penciled marks, on the back porch/Laundry room, that marked our growth, or the rose wall paper in the Master bedroom, the one with the vanity, and old basin and water picture.

The chair has probably been rocked for a thousand miles. The chair with it’s advertures, and cinder spots from the old wood stove, where I spent many childhoood hours reading, and rocking, the advertures I went on, I was a Character in the Pinballs, Martin Luther King Junior, giving the I Have a Dream Speech, I was Helen Keller, learning that words had a meaning through letters spelled through teachers hand, I was Mother Teresa caring for the poor and the dying in India.

I was the child labeled as Dyslexic, the one who was never supposed to find joy in books, despite that I was three when I began reading. I picked up Green Eyes and Ham and began reading word for word, my Grandmother never believed in she can’ts she only saw potential and had that rocking chair that carried me on advertures, advertures sone never thought I would go up.