After they took it away,
I cried.
Ridiculous, of course.
It was not a memory.
It was not the voice of my grandmother,
whispering about lost childhood days.
It was hers, of course, but new,
barely fifteen years old,
new for her fourth husband,
and I hadn't sat at it often.
But still,
I lay curled up
in the deep impression on the carpet,
shaking,
the cat poking at my arm,
wanting to know what the problem was.
I didn't choose it.
It came to me.
I had shopped for something clear,
and modern,
and mine.
But the money...
And Grandma had this one.
And so it was heavy and wooden,
and covered with a peeling veneer on the base,
and surrounded by chairs with
stained white upholstery.
Much too big for the space,
too substantial for a room
that was barely a room.
For ten years, it caught
my coats
my purse
my crafts
the masks I tried to sew
when the world asked me to.
It held Thanksgiving dinner.
It fed two cats.
It did all I asked of it,
all I wanted,
when I shopped for other things.
It made my place a place.
And when it was gone,
I knew it was because
I couldn't it with me,
any more than Grandma
could take it with her.
My place was no longer
my place.
I lay there--
I don't know how long.
Maybe five minutes,
maybe an hour.
It feels like more.
Then the cat cried,
looking for her bowls,
and I got up.
And moved.