the Yellow Chair

The chair was his best friend, really. His father had given it to him for his first apartment away from home, and it had been with him ever since. He had stayed up late, cramming for exams and drinking beer in the chair. A good deal of his honeymoon was spent cuddling with his beloved Lydia in the chair, rocking gently back and forth in the familiar rolling motion. The chair saw his three children grow up to be fine, strong women. He had sat in the chair and read them stories, helped them with their homework. He was slumped in the chair when the news came: cancer. Three years later, he sat by his wife's bedside as she died. He had memorized every creak of the old wood, every lump in the cushion. It held a lifetime of memories for him. He didn't expect her to understand.

The chair had to go. She could never fathom why her father was so attached to the old thing, anyway. It was practically falling apart, and he wouldn't let her touch it. When her mother died and he moved in with her and her husband, he insisted upon bringing the chair. She had begged to replace at least the stained yellow upholstery, but to no avail. The old man could be as stubborn as he pleased. She saw it as a stain on her pristine living room. The faded yellow fabric didn't match anything, really, and it was decidedly ugly. As hard as she tried, she couldn't understand.