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The Talking Chair
The chair rests by the fireplace. I can’t remember a time when it wasn’t there. It seems placid, quiet, but full of mystery. I want to know its secret.
It has two curved rockers at the bottom, which cause it to sway sometimes when the wind blows, like the chair is dancing. Maybe it is.
The dark wood finish is in contrast to the rest of the room, which is painted pale white. It makes the chair seem wiser, older, more confident. When I sit beside it (I never sit in the chair) I can smell the musty odor of old wood, but on this chair, it’s intriguing, like foreign cologne.
The wood on the sides is worn where many hands have touched it, over and over. The worn spots are like wrinkles, I think. After all, the chair is very old.
Sometimes, when I sit beside the chair, I imagine it could speak to me- tell me all its secrets and all it has seen and heard in the hundred years of its existence. It shines dark and vivid against the white room, fading into night, and I wonder if maybe, just maybe, one day the chair will open its decorative curlicue and start speaking. But that’s wishful thinking, chairs can’t talk.
Probably.
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