The Chair

Every child who sits in my seat has a story. Most of them are
tragic; neglect, abuse, suffering beyond the bounds of human
understanding. Occasionally the stories are just sad; accident, all
the family lost but this little waif; mother died, single dad just
couldn't keep the children together anymore; father's paycheck
barely covers the rent, mother has no job, there's simply no way to
feed the children.

I've heard them all; seen all kinds too. Obstreperous ones,
determined to be as obnoxious as humanly possible, begging for
attention of some kind, any kind, just notice me, please; the ones
trying to be pleasant, who desperately desire to gratify, in hopes
someone will want them again; the feet swingers, the ones who notice
everything, but know in their hearts their fate is already sealed,
yet their indomitable spirit keeps them fighting long after hope is
gone; and then there are the quiet ones, the ones who seem to fold
in on themselves the minute their feet leave the floor, whose arms
wrap forlornly around their middles because the world has already
forgotten they exist and there are no other arms to hold them
anymore.

I am old and have known much sorrow, but I have never encountered
such a wealth of grief as this little one holds that rests upon my
heartwood now. You will think me dense for using the word wealth in
this circumstance. But his grief is rich in his understanding of
what he has lost; abounding in memories of an all encompassing,
unconditional love; possessed of an instinctive capacity to bend
without breaking. Oh yes, he has a wealth of grief wrapped up
inside those small arms.

Never in all my years of service has a child affected me in quite
this fashion. I desire to wrap my arms around him; will my legs to
walk him out of this forlorn and barren place; feel the need to turn
the bars in my back into an impenetrable fence to screen out the
ugliness here that will try to suck out his soul. I must break the
enchantment that holds us both and return him to the fairy tale he
has been stolen from, for he cannot be of mortal flesh and blood.

And yet, he sits calmly, half-closed sky blue eyes focused on the
toes of scuffed tennis shoes, arms wrapped tightly over his chest,
and though he is still, I feel him rocking inside, comforting
himself, all the while humming over and over, the same soundless
tune; happy birthday to me, happy birthday to me, happy birthday
dear Daniel, happy birthday to me.

A wealth of grief indeed.