It was a bright, shiny chair.
I put it in the center of my room
where everyone could see it
even passersby in the street.
I cared for my chair,
dusted it, polished it,
told everyone who would listen
about its lines and curves,
how remarkable it was.
My chair had one short leg,
wobbled a bit,
My friends and I laughed
about our wobbly chairs
and the shims we used
to make them stable.
I painted my chair
in bright colors,
shared pictures on Facebook,
dutifully liked pictures of theirs,
felt part of the tribe,
felt part of the whole.
I seldom sat in my chair,
it was a bit rigid and stiff,
rubbed against my bones,
caused my back to ache,
set up an unease in my spirit.
A day came when I needed rest,
needed comfort and support.
Decided to sit in my well-polished chair,
displayed and brightly lit
in the center of my room.
The legs wobbled, then buckled,
the pieces fell apart,
Leaving me sitting in a pile of dust,
in the center of my room
where everyone could see
there was no chair,
only a chairlessness and
an empty room,
alone,
yearning
If only I had a chair …
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