I genuinely didn’t understand what I was looking at.
The paint had worn away along the edges. One leg had been repaired with a darker piece of wood. A black mark scarred the bottom rung as if somebody had once set something hot against it.
I looked at Mom.
She sat down in one of our kitchen chairs.
One leg had been repaired with a darker piece of wood.
Publicidad
Not the blue one.
“What is this?”
She didn’t answer.
I pulled the chair from the box.
It wobbled when I placed it on the floor.
Something had been scratched underneath the seat.
It wobbled when I placed it on the floor.
I tipped it sideways.
One word.
Uneven letters carved deeply into the wood.
GILBERT
Publicidad
I covered my mouth.
Dad’s name.
Not written recently.
Carved there long enough ago that the grooves had darkened with the rest of the wood.
Uneven letters carved deeply into the wood.
“Dad,” I whispered, staring at the chair, “what are we supposed to do with this?”
Mom began crying.
She pressed her fingertips against her eyes and sat there while I waited.
Finally, she said, “That was his chair.”
“Where?”
Publicidad
“In Hawaii.”
