I sit often in the old blue wingback chair by the window. I have had that chair for many years, and it is my favorite place to just sit and relax. Sometimes I read a good book, savoring each page taking the time to feel the story, the imagery, and the powerful words. I like to place my bookmarker on the page, close the book and let the story be a part of how I relax, closing my eyes and seeing what I read as if I were a part of the story.
The view from the window holds many tales, a small patch of woods opens to horses in a field: they seem almost within reach. I have a small garden by the window, and I can always see the butterflies, hummingbirds and many songbirds. Often, I will see a rabbit or deer walking down the dirt road, a stone’s throw from my window. It is a peaceful place, a secret place where many stories live.
My dog Buddy and me are the only ones that sit in the chair. I never make him move when he is there. I give him some time to enjoy the old blue chair. We both are growing old, and this is our time to rest and reflect on a life that seems to get better as the years’ pass.
I find myself going back to the books of my youth, John Steinbeck, Hemingway, Edgar Allen Poe, and F. Scott Fitzgerald. Reading them is a visit to a place where my love of writing and reading started. I often wonder when my time comes where my books will go. Will they be boxed up, forgotten, and who will sit in my chair? I wonder if they will see the things that made me love sitting in the old blue chair.
I am sure that I will spend more days in that chair, write many more stories and spend many days on the lost highways with my dog. When I look down that long stretch of dirt road, I notice that the light is a bit brighter than in years past.
Buddy and I always take the long way home knowing the old blue chair will be there waiting for us.
