The prompt today called for a “thing” poem  — an ode of sorts to an object. The first thing I thought of was the very thing  (and people) supporting me while I write.

8.

The back is made of honey brown slats that cross over one another. A number sign, hashtag dining room chair. Cushion stuffing crushed and pushed to the side after several years of wear. We chose these chairs for the forgiving upholstery. The kind of nondescript mottled brown and burgundy that can hide squashed tomatoes, glops of spilled yogurt and marks left by tiny, greasy fingers. Our  daughters have spent many hours on these chairs, and I’ve spent much breath telling them to sit, not stand, because it’s time to eat. Time to be together. Reinforced by your handiwork — extra wooden blocks supporting the bottom, though it still cracks and wobbles when we sit down, fragility forgotten and confidence heavy. Not built to last, but we are.