That is not my chair.

At my mother's house, there is an old wicker chair that my dad used to use. He'd sit on it to work on whatever things he had picked up earlier: Wiring, a broken thing of some kind, or something.

Looking at it, I could already here the peculiar "creeeak" of the wicker as it adjusts when he sat down on it. He would then reach up with one hand, adjust his glasses, then get to work on whatever doodad or piece of technology that required repair, the occasional "creeeak" of the chair protesting as he adjusted his position.

I came to associate that chair with Dad: That was "Dad's Chair," and not mine.

. . .

When he passed away, I realized that's one of the things I missed: Knowing that Dad would be there, in that seat, working on something. I had grown comfortable with him sitting there, focused, hands moving over the object of his attentions, making it better. That's what he did.

...and he always did it in *that* chair.

When I look at it, I realize I can't sit in it. I can't own it. It isn't mine.

It's not my chair.

It's Dad's chair. It always will be.

. . .