The chair arrived in a box

The chair arrived in a box

from an estate sale I didn't attend.

I didn't ask for it,

but here it is—

velvet worn thin on one arm,

the shape of her hands still pressed into the nap,

a small canyon where her fingers

wore it away,

year after year of sitting,

of holding something in her lap,

maybe sewing, maybe just resting,

maybe both.

I can't throw it away.

I can't sit in it either.

It's been in my living room for three days,

and I keep walking around it

like it might bite, or speak,

or suddenly become

something I have to take care of.

The velvet smells like her apartment—

that particular mustiness,

closed windows and old lavender,

the weight of someone else's life

in fabric form.

I think about calling my mother,

asking if she wanted it,

but I already know the answer.

She wanted to forget her mother,

wanted to move forward into something

less heavy.

I'm not sure how to do that yet.

The chair sits.

I walk around it.