The Corner Chair
It was its job to be there. An extra option, the backup in case all other seats were taken. Positioned in such a way to provide a resting place but not a useful one. Always the last to be picked but the first to be admired as its lack of use has left it in pristine condition.
Or almost pristine condition. Because inside it was eroding. Falling into itself, one dust particle at a time. Left to its own devices, thinking too hard about it all and what it all meant when it really meant nothing at all. And that was the problem, after all.
Sometimes, when the blinds were open and the fresh air poured through the door, it would get a whiff of the things outside. They were “things” because truly it had no idea what lived outside past that glass wall. They likely all had names and pasts and some sort of story to tell, but they were unknown. Unbeknownst to it.
Then one day, it had a neighbor. A tired pair of shoes, lazily basking in the morning sunshine. Worn outside for brief periods of time then dropped aside again and again. But the shoes didn’t care. They didn’t care that they were only needed occasionally.
And then the shoes began to share stories of outdoors. Of the smells and the feel of the ground and the way the wind told you things you didn’t know you needed to hear. And how it was okay to be needed occasionally. At least you were needed.
So it began to see things differently. A new way. Like how its creaky caverns and dark corners were a home of sorts to other creatures of the house. Or how maybe it was special, after all. Maybe it was there in the corner to be shown off, not used, on purpose.
So no more eroding. No more falling in on itself. No more resenting it was just a place to dump a purse. At least it had a place by the door. The open door, where the wind could tell it stories it never knew it needed to hear.