My chair, an aged rocker with a wicker bottom and back, sits beneath the old walnut tree in the field. It’s arms bleached and cracked from the elements, it’s bottom frayed from use. It is my refuge, my oasis. I retreat to it’s serene embrace when I am at my patience’s end, when I can bear no more. Once upon a time, I sat here to watch my children play in the tall grass or gather the scattered nuts. But now, the tall grass is my companion, whispering to me of places I’ve never been, nor will ever be as long as my chair resides in this spot.
The walnuts lay forgotten on the ground, untouched by human hands; together but separate, like me. I watch as the hawks fly above me blocking the sun as they search for their next meal. My dog lies at my feet, his muzzle etched with gray. We’ve been here for many years, he and I and my chair. Some days I sit with the sun upon my wrinkled skin, wondering what life would have been if I’d left my chair behind. Ventured out into the unknown, left all my responsibilities behind. Unencumbered, my bonds loosed, free to live my life anew. I close my eyes and for a few moments my solitary chair becomes a wrought iron bistro chair on a Parisian sidewalk, the smell of baguettes fill the air as the melody of the language soothes me. Or a chaise lounge on the deck of a cruise ship headed to the Caribbean. The sun beats down on me, warming my bones, the song of the ocean lulls me towards sleep.
But only for a moment. My time here must end, for duty calls and my obligations continue. Never living life for myself, only for others. Perhaps one day, I’ll walk away and leave my chair behind.