My Growing Up Chair

It's silly how things imbed themselves in memories. I opened a box and out popped a yellow and white checked pillow that was dragged from room to room by my first born. In another were beanie babies I remember spending hours hunting down with my youngest. And in a corner were a pair of size 10 roller blades that my middle son tore through town on as he traveled to and from Coy's house.

It's yard sale time, when all of life is dragged out and gone through. The kayak I bought in Week 1 of a new life; the lighted curios where the Lladros and first editions gleamed; the baker's rack that fit exactly in the alcove of the old kitchen.

I sat on one of my mother's dining chairs for maybe the last time, remembering her reupholstering the seat with a striped fabric that had to be done over and over to get it exactly right. On holidays, I sat facing the window and my grandmother sat across and next to Don. Mom was nearest the kitchen, Dad at the head.  High school, college, marriage, losses and gains, life renos, all of it from this chair.

Table settings are different now. There are wonderfully diverse lively families bursting with new faces I can't imagine living without. Jami and Randy, the boys and Don, the girls and their families, all by virtue of change. And on especially lucky days, I look around at the faces of my uncle and aunt and cousins over dinner, knowing we are making timeless memories.

And so it's one more look back before my chair becomes part of someone else's history. I want it to be a young family with children who will kneel on the seats as they reach for the food. And I am filled with gratitude for life that always finds a way to keep us movin' forward.