All the sudden the position of the faux wicker loveseat on which I sit, doing brainless discussion board assignments for my community college classes offends me. I am deeply, personally offended by the choice someone (was it me? Was it my husband?) made to place this couch facing inward toward the sliding glass door instead of outward facing the yard, where I could at least occasionally glance up and actually actively watch life passing me by. While I espouse my thoughts (and cite my sources from the web and from my own experience in order to get full credit) on what the most effective methods are in which to produce full participation from an entire team of students when you are the leader of a group with a project to complete.
Moving the furniture takes 5 minutes and opens up a great expanse of blue sky and a canopy of Spanish moss, so long as a crane my neck upward.
In my direct view though, remains a fucking rocking chair. Nobody sits in it, because long ago the rockers rotted off. It looks a little like I imagine electric chair would if it were located on a southern plantation. Politely whitewashed, adorned with decorative finials. Blue and white striped cushions have been stuffed onto it as an afterthought, even though it’s clear that no one would ever, ever choose to sit there and the cushions, they will not help you. The high back is so straight that it almost pitches you forward when you sit. This chair says “Go ahead; try me. Dumbass.”
It came from my grandfather’s house, and is one of those things you just keep. But I’m over that shit. It robs me the view of my butterfly garden, my children playing in the mud, and my Gravedigger powerwheels monster truck. It’s a ridiculous reproduction chair that doesn’t even have the damn rockers anymore and it’s just a thing. There’s no soul attached to this non functional, ugly chair that obstructs my view of beauty. I resent my attachment to all this stuff. All these things; this museum that is my past.
Often I envision that I have the option to hire a curator for my life, a preservationist for all these bits of memorabilia. Just hang onto these things for me while I go out and live, because the thing is I can’t hang onto it all and also be free. That’s the rub I guess.
What if I light a cigar from the flames when I burn this chair tonight in the fire bowl, while I drink a gin martini in your honor, grandpa.
This morning, the chair falls victim to my claw hammer as I disassemble the deck rails too, making way for an unobstructed view of my son’s fourth birthday.