My Chair

My chair is a tired plastic blow-up chair. While it is appears light, while it appears to be insensitive and carefree, it is very heavy. It is white under black, under silver, under red. It has been painted so many different times that it is unaware of its true shade. The various array of paint coats don't allow one to see the blackness of cigarette ash mixed with the blood of a dying wound. My chair is heavy, heavier than it is old, and it is uneven. It is thin in places, while at the same time, it is too heavy for its own liking. My chair is eroding against the constant waves that pound against it. It has wheels, for people to bring it wherever they please, but its wheels creak and groan in angst whenever touched. It is unbearably puckered with the pockmarks of worry. The edges are smooth, its planks rough and angry; and while the plastic sings and whistles in the wind, it sags with age and with weariness. It has been around the world of pain more than once, and there is so much more to it than it will ever tell you.

My chair is hopeful. It has been knocked around, inflated, deflated, molded, remolded, remodeled, punctured, taped back together; and yet it still stands erect, it still stands for people to place themselves upon it. My chair is one that has been battered and beaten, but my chair is still standing tall. It is not proud, and it is not elaborate. But my chair is the most delicately--and beautifully--intricate chair that this author has ever seen.