The Red Chair. Epilogue

[oneighty]

1993. The red chair is in my bedroom now across the room where I sit.

I remember Jose from Puerto Rico sitting in that chair kicked back relaxing. He and his girlfriend were staying with us for a while between places to go to work the farming fields.

The lever controlling the chair position was missing. Jose has rigged a box end wrench to replace the missing lever. Jose and his girlfriend had a baby girl about his time. The child was born incomplete and will always be about a year old. They stopped by last fall. the child smiles and laughs happy when one says; "Ice Cream." The red chair reminds me of that.

Before that the red chair was crowded into my wife's bedroom. Tricia spent many an hour embraced by the comfort of the chair while recovering from surgery.

I eventually moved the chair back upstairs. The wooden frame was breaking apart. I made repairs with wood glue and drywall screws; made it solid and strong again. The upholstery is like new, mohair I think. Stroked in one direction it is prickly, in the other direction it is smooth and slippery to the touch. The color changes with the lighting, sometimes a burnt orange other times as red as the tulips in the yard.

I sit in the chair now and then. It embraces me. I use an adjustable wrench to control the positions. I like to think about all the people that might have sat in the chair before it came to us. I think to them that I am taking care of their chair, protecting their memories. I enjoy doing that. I think a lot about Jose and Darlene and their baby girl, forever young.

August 2006: Darlene Jose and the baby girl appear in my hospital room. At first I cannot place them. Ah Jose I think. I have a copy of my book 'Voyages of the Vicky Mary'. I show Jose that story which I have written about The Red Chair. A nurse makes a copy for him and Darlene. Then they are gone.

A few days later at home I am now sedated. Jose comes into to my sick room for a final good bye. I am confusing him with some one else. I make verbal blunders, catching myself I feel deep shame.

"We are going home now." Jose tells me. He grips my hand saying; "Ed you are a good man." His eyes tear up and as he turns to leave so do mine.

"You are a good man Jose" I whisper. I think perhaps we will meet again somewhere.

180

[auntAgonist]

1. good to see you again 180! Your story

and stories always touch me in a profound way. You say so much!

I hope you're feeling better :hug:


aA

[JitterbugPerfume]

2. thank you Ed

for everything

[brook]

3. As you often do...

you've brought tears to my eyes with your beautiful words.

It's so good to see you writing again. You are loved, Ed. :hug: