My Father’s Chair

There’s a spot in the room that doesn’t just sit

It anchors the space with a slow, quiet grit.

The fabric has changed, the frame may wear,

But one thing remains: it’s my father’s chair.

He never makes speeches or needs to explain

He just offers his seat like shelter from rain.

No grand declarations, no need to declare,

Just, “Here. Relax. Sit down. Take my chair.”

I’ve slept in his chair through seasons of ache,

Heart heavy with babies and choices to make.

The chair never judges, just softens the air

The safest place of all is my father’s chair.

We don’t always speak the same language or view,

But he’s always believed in whatever I do.

There’s something unspoken, respectful, and rare

That hums through the arms of my father’s chair.

It’s not just a seat it’s a lifetime of grace,

A symbol of safety stitched right into place.

A place I can rest when the world doesn’t care

I’ll always find home in my father’s chair.