The Chair

It isn't in the corner, because there isn't any. It is the ugly orange that brings disco into the background. It has been worn by the constant presence of my father, the smell of his cigarettes clinging to it. The remote has it's own patch, on the right arm... a rectangular reminder of the rule my dad maintained over the television on Sunday mornings, and weekday evenings.

The stuffing and springs protrude through the seat, a testament to my father's constant presence. The handle to the footstool, part of the chair, splintered from the abuse two gleeful boys made it suffer.

In my head it is all that makes a recliner.