The armchair by the curb marked the end of my childhood,
the tan belly of the back rest sloping.
The tattered fabric flapped as the trash men loaded it
onto the truck.
I used to curl up beside my dad
as he told me made up stories:
“The Tree Monster,”
“The Snow Monster,”
“The Adventures of One Little Girl.”
Beside the fireplace the footrest grew
warm from the dancing flames.
The fire enchanted me,
still enchants me.
Six months before I graduated from college,
a plush leather chair replaced
the old one.
It fit with the new carpet, the fancy doorknobs, the Australian Shepard puppy.
I wasn’t nostalgic.