Chair by Mary A Kelly

It sat, staring out the window filled with white.

The wooden frame curving up into a graceful sweep, the cushions flattened with time. Still fresh as ever though, the wood regularly polished and dusted, the covers washed in a warm cycle with two and a quarter cups of soap and carefully put back on the chair. The floor bears no marks of movement, it has sat still these past years, supporting its owner. Being an island in a sea of people, a sea of intermittent fasting and surgeries. Of diagnoses and medication. Its owner comes every day, without fail, to sit and look out the window. Calming their nerves after a long day of stress.

Slung over the back of the chair is a knitted blanket, wonderful colours as bright as ever, in a pattern that seems to swirl down the chair. Tiny scratches climb from the front left leg, from where the owner's daughter had gotten a kitten but it had passed away. Leaving the wood intact. The fabric faded from constant sunlight, there were no blinds in this room, and the temperature was always kept warm, the owner getting colder than others.

But eventually, as all things do, the owner's visits came to an end. The chair sits alone, a thin layer of dust slowly dancing its way out of the air to lay on the cushioned seat. The room turns warm again with the incoming summer, the covers now being washed in a cold cycle with only two cups of soap.

It sat, staring out the window filled with white, enough for the both of them.