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Did the old chair lean
to the curve in Grandpa’s back
or did the years he sat there
slowly curve him?
Rough cut wood can twist
yielding to the ran and sun
warping everything to one side,
but then again, Grandpa
could always cast a twist
of his own sitting on the porch,
creating his grand adventures
from the simplest of tales.
I picture the chair stoically
supporting his weight,
the butterfly joints holding firm,
never squeaking even as he
shook wildly with laughter.
Once I remember how the chair slumped
as he sat after Grandma’s funeral.
Or did the chair stand firm
and his body betray him, slumping
when I saw him weep that first time?
I’m not sure I remember correctly.
My friends often told tales
of their grandfathers on fine rockers
but I only recall how safe I felt
wrapped in his strong arms
sitting calmly on the solid chair.
He would let me sip tea
from his glass, grasping the armrest
awaiting the inevitable spill.
I guess it was inevitable I’d grow
too old for his lap, rushing off into life
only to return later to sit in his place
and understand how big this chair really was.