Uncle Arthur’s Chair

Today’s Throwback Thursday post is a tribute poem I wrote about a family member in 2003. My Uncle Arthur was a character! He always had a story to tell you. He was quick wit and an excellent tailor. He used to sit in a chair similar to the one below. We still have the chair and think about him every time we look at it.




It seemed like it was built for him.

It was round like him.

It fit him like a glove.

It was dark like him.

It was solid like him.

We can’t refer to it

without thinking of him.

He worked in it.

He ate in it.

He drank in it,

told tall tales in it.

We’d stop by to see him

amongst the bolt of fabric,

behind the old fashioned sewing machine.

He didn’t get up.

He would greet us from it.

He measured dad’s inseam from it.

He would ask me to join him in it.

It held us both up.

After he passed, it sat empty for a while –

waiting for him,

expecting him.

None of us could fill it the way he did.

None of us could fill it the way he did.


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