Chairs

These were the chairs of my grandparents.

They sat there through dinners of “fishes and loaves”. Here they contemplated the state of a violent, selfish world and took responsibility for fixing it. Where home baked cookies were shared as a thanks to volunteers for their many causes and where Christmas letters were written to connect with community far and wide.

These were the chairs of my parent’s generation.

Aunts and uncles living into the vision of their parents in creating a peaceful world. Where new partners were welcomed and families grew. Songs of protest and grace were sung. A table where the cruel realities of a harsh world were challenged by the unwavering love for a brother with Down syndrome.

These were the chairs of my generation.

The place for birthday parties with “Jack Horner Pie” where everyone gets a present. Where the sound of pennies clicking on the wood rings to the call of “Up Jenkins!” The table at which I was fed when the dreams of my parents ended in divorce. Where adult conversations about war and famine and refugees rose above the creaky wood and seeped into my consciousness.

These are the chairs of my children and their cousins…and their children’s children.

The place where artists, activists and inventors are growing. Where they’ve seen the deepest valleys of their parent’s marriages and the tenacity to make things right. In these chairs they’ll continue the storytelling, game playing and gatherings that always include a few “adopted family” gathered along the way.

These battered, noisy mismatched chairs hold our history and future, bound by love.