What Held

I sat in the wicker chair at my aunt's,

the one I've always sat in,

and felt it shift, felt the give,

felt the loose strands poking through the weave,

the dust rising when I settled my weight.

This chair held me when I was small.

This chair held me through it all—

the visits, the summers, the weight

of growing up inside its gate.

And it's holding me now, but not the same way,

not with the solid certainty I remember,

not with the promise it will hold

the next time I come.

The fibers are separating.

I can see the pattern breaking,

the places where it's giving,

where what was bound is coming undone,

where the weave that held me

is learning to let go.

This is what it looks like

when familiar things age.

When the constant becomes unstable.

When you sit in the place

that's always held you

and feel it failing beneath you,

and understand that you're failing too,

that nothing stays the way it was,

that the chair that held you

and the person you were

are both slowly coming apart.