Father’s Day. It’s come and gone. But I’m still thinking about the chair.
Dad’s chair. THE chair.
Visitors saw a big, comfy recliner. I saw a throne. Put there and protected by Mom.
The chair faced the most important scenic view. The television. There also had to be space for the TV tray. It was an extension of the chair. You could eat -- while watching TV.
I saw the value of the chair — and the tray. And … the TV Guide. The TV Guide was how you planned your evening. The Guide also was part of the chair. It was like a remote control. Dad simply said, “Turn it to 7.” Someone got up and changed the channel. (Imagine that. A remote with voice command.)
The chair belonged to Dad. If he was not in it, it tended to stay open.
Oh, I sat in it. Put my feet up. It was great for reading. But only when Dad was at work or napping.
I remember wanting my own chair someday. That never happened. The chair somehow didn’t fit. I wasn’t comfortable insisting on my own chair. And the chair was about more than comfort. It was about where people fit into the family structure.
I would walk in to visit Mom and Dad and I knew where they’d be. Mom in the kitchen. Dad in his chair. Their comfort zones.
Both Mom and Dad have passed. I never stop missing them. Especially on designated days. Like Father’s Day. When I kept remembering Dad in his chair.
In earlier days when the chair was empty it was still powerful. His chair. Now … I think of his chair as empty. And sad.
A chair that misses him … as much as I do.
I’m Lonny Cain … and that’s my Perspective.