The Chair: First PersonAfter another long day, just like every other day that I have lived for most of the past fifteen years; I make my way to my final evening resting place.
When did I begin to find myself in this pattern?
I get home from work exhausted, heat a prepackaged TV dinner in the microwave; pour myself a glass of vodka and flip through the channels until sleep and I become one.
It is sad to think that this chair of mine with its worn out upholstery and the telltale squeaks that disclose its age; this chair of mine knows me better than any living soul.
It was my choice to walk away, to take my leave from the world I knew.
The chaos and the stress of a family were far too much for me, but I can not help but wonder if my children ever think of me. As I take a sip I remind myself that I do not want to go down this path of thinking, this path that inevitably leads me full of sorrow and regret.
The vodka will soon take its effect on me and if I focus on the television I might get lost, I hope I will get lost, I need to get lost, once again.
I wish I had been in the kitchen when the news bulletin interrupted my evening ritual. Apparently there had been a fire and its only survivor was a young boy.
Without many words it was easy to discern that this child had lost his family and he was full of despair for losing those he loved so dearly. That is when the tears came. It was not the tears of empathy; it was the tears of regret.
Had the fire come to visit me, there would be no one whose eyes filled with tears like the eyes of this small boy.
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