It is made of strong wood, that chair by the fire.
Oak felt like pine in his hands as he molded every piece.
Hands that have seen splinters,
Callouses forming as the wood became smooth from every rub.
As if the dead tree has not offered enough, he had to partake of its bark.
He needed Oak to mold Oak, every splinter, every rub, an exchange of energy
between man and wood.
He has made a lot of pieces in his time,
but the chair by the fire was special to his heart.
He would watch as she gently rocks it.
Her pet cat beside her leg.
Creating creaking noises on the wood floor.
Her hair is now silvery white, flyaway locks tucked
behind her ear. He would come to her and look into her eyes.
Eyes that now look glassy as if looking past him.
He would hold her hand and gently stroke it,
Feeling the pulse through her thinning skin.
He would whisper her name softly in her ear.
A slight movement of her head as if to turn was enough.
He knew that she knew.
The chair started to gently rock as the cat walked by trying to find that familiar warmth, its usual spot.
The floor creaked but it's muted now.
The fire still burns but now with a yearning.
He came over and sat on the chair.
With his oak calloused hands he started to stroke the place where her
hands used to rest.
He is one with her.
He is one with the wood.
He is the chair.