When you become one with the chair

This is me waking from a dream.

This is me weary eyed and aching. Always aching. Always staring down, watching my chest rise and fall -checking to see if this is really happening. The years, they stretched by. Some yawned, others blinked. Now they count down.

This is my chair, in a dark room. Broken down cushions. Worn corduroy into shiny skids were i'd been for so long. Creakiness, the rule, not exception. The fabric smells like me, has become a part of me and together we watch the Television set.

The room is dark with late afternoon blackness. Sun peering through the blades, like a dog watches through chain linked fence. Wanting to come in, but knowing the unshakable certainty of boundary.

This is me adjusting to white light. For a second, I am being born. Sensations I'm not supposed to remember are coursing my synapses, playing over and over and over in my mind.

"Honey, they'll be here in 10 minutes, I just spoke to them on the phone."

"Okay, I'll get up. Could you turn out the light, though? It's giving me a headache."

And the lights went out.

This is my peaceful 10 minutes. Everything I'd worked for is here with me. The house, the furniture, the photographs on the wall, the television set, this chair. All of it my own and of my consequence.

I sit up. I'm not so strong any more. Like the rusty tools that stare at me from the patio, our capability does not necessitate our use.

The knock at the door - and tapping below that.

I am 75. Why did the years skip me over? To be young when I went to sleep and geriatric upon waking.

"Grandpa!" they all say and I stand up. A pain shoots through my body but I smile and hug them.

"Don't be so rough with Grandpa kids, he's tired."

"Watch what you say son, I don't feel any older than you do," I say.

"Come on in the kitchen, dinner is just about ready."

They leave and I exhale. In the other room, plates clash and silverware jingle - in my room bones grind and cancer cells multiply. The pain is excruciating. I feel like I'm dying. This isn't right. I'm not part of this life yet. To have lived the story and forgotten the arch - it's nauseating. And I break down. Slumping into my chair which is part of me. I bite my hand, blood dripping and tears well up, but I feel nothing. I see my degree, framed and set above the mantle while I black out.

Then dark.

This is me waking from a dream.