There are two chairs in my house.
Or perhaps only one.
The one I was held as a child in against his heart.
The one I can hear his uneven breathing from at five in the afternoon.
The chair he would hold me upright in so I could pretend to walk.
The chair he reached out to me from with a blank expression while I pulled away.
The space where I would breathe in his comforting cologne in front of a winter fire with no care for the future.
The space that stunk of hard liquor and I cared too much.
I love that leather recliner.
I hate that leather recliner.