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she’s rescued; a forlorn ladder-back with missing ribs, so that if she<br />
leans back she falls through.<br />
“What good is a broken chair?” Jeremy always asks.<br />
Lecia retorts, “I’ll fix them.” Then she feels guilty. She doesn’t want<br />
to fix them. She likes them the way they are.<br />
He doesn’t want the old chairs in the house. At first she stored them<br />
in the art studio, a small light-filled room at the back of the garage,<br />
but then it became so cluttered she couldn’t work. So the boys moved most<br />
of the chairs to the screened-in porch.<br />
Lecia watches her youngest lift the Queen Anne from the van. He holds<br />
the chair by its velvet seat, the legs a cage around his body, the<br />
curved top headed out in front. He carries it through the night and the<br />
fluttering snow, and through the open door onto the light of the porch,<br />
sets the four legs on the floor and maneuvers the seat so it faces the<br />
other old chairs, like an introduction to a broken family.<br />
Lomand’s Chair<br />
by Ruth Comeau<br />
Watercolor
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