I rarely sit in the old chair. It’s not uncomfortable, nor is it covered in cat hair or dust. It’s a lovely chair. A chair in which one could read or write, play cards or meditate. It’s deep cushioned and the back is perfectly angled. What’s more, the chair is beautiful. Four cabriole legs support the cream coloured seat. The arms are neither too high nor too low, and wings sprout from the back to protect the occupant from any draft. Though from a distance it’s hard to tell, delicate, pastel pink stripes give the chair a warm hue. When the sun sinks low and the last light of day warms the soft fabric, I can almost imagine a woman knitting quietly in the evening glow.
You might ask why I don’t get rid of it. What is the point of owning a chair you don’t sit in? You’re right, of course, and I’ve often thought the same. I’ve come close to selling it. I’ve come close to trashing it. But then I see where the linen ripped some years ago, where someone might idly pick while reading in the grey light of morning, and I know that I can’t. I suppose I love it in a way.
Besides, it has its uses. Hidden behind its bulk are many things that would otherwise be clutter. Knitting needles and scraps of fabric. Half finished journals and a pair of glasses with the wrong prescription. Things of no use. It must seem like this chair occupies much of my thoughts, but sometimes I forget about it.
In the middle of the night I walk to the kitchen for a glass of water, only to stop, shocked at the sight of it in the white light of the moon. I go to leave, but then I see it. A figure curled up on the chair, covered in blankets and shadows, two piercing blue eyes the only visible feature. I step forward and the vision is gone. My faltering steps draw me to the chair and I sink to my knees. My forehead rests against the arm.
“It’s cold out here,” I say to the dark.
Fingers run through my hair. I start, but no one is there.
Maybe I’ve been a fool to try to rid myself of the chair. I sit on the sofa across the room and stare at the old thing. The room would feel empty without it. I couldn’t just replace it, that wouldn’t do. No, I’ll keep it. It’s become part of the house. I stand up and turn away. The hairs on the nape of my neck follow suit. I feel eyes on my back. I’m not afraid, but my stomach flutters nervously. Several long moments pass, then, I hear the hushed click of knitting needles. I turn to face the chair.
Colten Kamlade is an amateur writer from British Columbia, Canada. He spends his free time reading, writing, and exploring his beautiful province.
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