A Chair to Grow In

Tucked into my mother’s recipe file is this poem–a first draft in her handwriting. It is an ode to the chair that now sits at the end of my own dining table.

The Old High Chair

Is it my imagination or
vibrations of the past?

The feeling I have as I stroke
your old arm rest–
I can almost see the smile
of a little boy, but now
the years have past.

That little boy is a man–
a man with young sons
of his own. And now his own
Dad has been laid
to rest.

Two little girls used
the chair and then it had
a rest.

A little blonde-haired girl
used the very same chair.
But the feelings I have now
are all just memories.

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  1. Pamela, what a lovely surprise among your mother’s recipes. Thinking of you and your mother, and many, many hugs to you. (Remember to take care of yourself as you care for your mother.)

  2. Thanks, ladies. We’ve had an eventful week. And we’ve made progress, but there’s still a rocky road ahead…

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