Chair

The night before I moved, I caught myself thinking, “Maybe I can let go of the Chris-chair.” The salvation army was coming the following Wednesday and I was just thinking about how easy it would be not to have to move the chair. Chris’ chair was really my chair. It had been for a couple of years before we even met. It only became his chair after his cancer surgery. I set it up for him, without the footrest, so he could be comfortable while he recovered. There was so little I could do to make any part of the ordeal easier for him, but when he came home and saw it set up, he smiled and thanked me.

Jonathan and I tried to make the chair work at home, but it just wouldn’t. Single futon chairs are quite large and no matter what layout we tried, the chair didn’t work. I decided I was ready to let it go, especially since it was tied to a memory of Chris that was bad. The chair came to symbolize great sadness for me, an empty chair, the chair in which my husband took his last breath. I didn’t want it anymore. Not now. Not when I’m really taking huge strides pushing myself forward.

The salvation army came on Wednesday. They began loading up the truck with all of the boxes and furniture we had stored in the garage. When they took the chair, I lost my breath. I turned to Jonathan and said, “I don’t think I’m going to be able to get through this without crying.” I try not to cry about Chris in front of Jonathan. Hell, I try not to cry in front of him, at all. But when the chair went, I did.

Jonathan held me and said, “It’s okay. You can cry if you need to. It’s okay. You loved him. You loved him very much. And he loved you. He still does. He always will.”

How did I get so lucky? Twice.

Shneed.