The chair

Avery sitting in the chair in the last weeks of his life

      I begin each day sitting in a chair that holds me between its arms while I sip a hot cup of tea. My evenings end sitting in the chair, trusting it enough to hold tired muscles and a heavy heart. The chair lends its frame in support of my back while I watch entertainment or talk on the phone or let go of the tears I’ve held back through the day. The chair doesn’t judge what mood I may be in because it has witnessed enough to know feelings shift like weather.

The chair was not mine to begin with. Its life of service initially began with my aunt who generously shared it with my mother before I laid claim to it. I had been looking for a chair with enough seat room to hold me and my two cats, and it needed to be small enough to fit into a corner of my bedroom. The chair my mother was ready to replace happened to fit perfectly for my measured requirements.

The first day the chair came to live in my bedroom, my cat Avery Finn explored every inch and discovered a small rip in the under lining, which he immediately widened then crawled into like a hammock. Kaya, my other kitty, followed her brother’s lead and after exploring the new furniture claimed the middle of the cushioned seat and positioned herself like a queen. I wondered if I would have the opportunity to sit on the chair, or if the chair would be claimed by my two feline companions.

Eventually their curiosity and newness of the chair waned, and the cats returned to their regular stations on the bed and cat tower. I found comfort sitting between the chair’s soft arms, which predictably served as an invitation for Avery to hop up on my lap, followed by Kaya who wiggled her rotund body between the arm of the chair and my leg. We fit perfectly together held in the comfort of the chair.

Each morning, I made tea and brought it on a tray with a teacup, soy milk, and toast. I would place the tray on a side table positioned next to our chair then bring over a blanket to keep my legs warm. As soon as I got settled with my first cup of tea Avery would join me atop the blanket while Kaya would snuggle her way between my body and the arm of the chair. When we were settled and tucked in together, I would reach for my headphones, select my favorite meditation music and close my eyes. Though we were three distinct characters, within the arms of this chair we became one organism breathing, purring, sipping tea and melting appreciatively with love into the present moment.

As Avery approached his 18^th year he began to slow down. Still, we kept our tradition of sitting together each morning in our chair through the last day of his life. After Avery’s death, Kaya chose not to sit with me in the chair. So, I sat alone often overwhelmed by tears. It was three weeks, maybe more before Kaya would join me in the chair, but never again did she sit with me for morning meditation. Our lives changed after Avery Finn died, and seven months almost to the day, Kaya followed her brother Avery in death.

I stopped meditating. For the first month following Kaya’s death I stopped everything but the tears and sorrow that became my constant companions while sitting in this chair.

It has been two months since Kaya’s death, nine months since Avery’s and this morning I sat with a cup of tea looking at the picture frame on the side table that holds an image of my cats. With tears pooling and swollen eyes, I put on headphones listened to music and sat in the chair to meditate. Grief has a way of slowing us down, shifting our habits and comforts. What once was, will never be again, and the emptiness feels overwhelming some days.

The chair doesn’t invest or judge what mood I am in because it has witnessed enough to know that feelings shift like weather. It simply does what chairs do best, sit quietly with us holding our body and our memories.