I have a chair in the living room that has over the years turned into “my chair.”  It has a matching one that sits on the other side of the room. Michael and I picked them out together along with a sofa to match. They both recline and are just the right size.

The one that I always sit in is in a corner next to an end table that has all my important items.  It has a table top fan, for relentless, never-ending hot flashes, an extra pair of reading glasses and several books that are waiting or in the process of being read.  There are also framed pictures of people that I love. On the other side is a reading lamp that shines just the right amount of light on my reading materials.

Not that I only read in this chair.  I have been known to sleep there as well.  I recovered from double knee replacement surgery in that chair.  I spent a few angry nights in that chair, and a few worried ones as well.  When people are over to visit, we sit in the living room and I sit in that chair and we talk. But the night that changed the composition, karma and/or peace of that single chair is the night of my loss.

I didn’t know that when I came home that night at 2:00am or so, that I would change the serenity of my favorite chair just by sitting in it. I was moving by habit when Elaine and I walked in the house, both of us numb and exhausted.  I robotically made my way to the living room and the chair that I sub-consciously hoped would give me comfort.  I sat down and pushed back so the foot rest would engage. It felt like relief at the time.  At least it was familiar. I don’t remember breathing a sigh of relief, as there wasn’t any relief to be had for many months to come.  But I didn’t know any of that yet.  Elaine sat directly across from me, not my mate, but sitting in the chair’s mate.  She looked at me quietly and expectantly, waiting for my direction. I only realize that now.  At the time, I didn’t see anything.

My head rested back and to the left as always.  All the lights were on because we needed them in our darkness.  We spoke quietly of life and death, of illness and procedures. We spoke of my husband’s death in soft tones, words without tears, not yet, it was too soon.

I remember at one point Elaine pushed back and put her feet up too. After sometime, I got up to turn off the main lights saying, “We should try to dim things down a bit.”  I left one small light on that would keep the night away and keep time standing still.

Elaine and I sat together, her in her chair, me in mine. All the while I sat, my grief was seeping into the fabric and once living wood of that chair. I was soaking up its last bit of comfort and rest that was offered and gave back grief, pain and loss.  It wasn’t until months later, as I started to mourn from within my soul, that I realized every time I sat in my once favorite chair, my former “spot”, I relived the night of my loss.