Old Chair

I want to be an old chair, the favorite, all tattered wool and oak and varnish. warm scents of dust and skin settled into my wooden grooves and cotton weft. mothers knelt before me, elbows on the cushion and head bent in prayer. Babes sat on knees, stacks of books left in my lap, dresses draped over my back. placed reluctantly into beds of moving trucks, leaving neighbors to wonder why I've yet to face the curb or charity shop. But still i sit, in the corner of eyes, and the edges of photographs. Thinking, don’t you too wish? Not to be left behind?