He’s here about a chair

I invite him in.
 
I’m clearing out, I say. Indicate
the few remaining items. Gilt mirror
leaning up against the wall.
A gadget to spin, and pick numbers
for the pools. A singing Buddhist bowl.
The chubby chair.
 
I smooth the fabric. It was hardly used,
I say. Only for visitors. It’s perfect, he says.
Something for my son to throw his clothes over.
I usually find them on the floor.
I consider what I know of sons.
It fits.
 
This is Dad’s house I say.
He’s in a nursing home. He has dementia.
And frail in body too.
Mine as well, he says. I go on Thursdays.
A hundred miles I drive. Get home.
Ring to say I’m back.
He says: Who are you?
 
It’s hard, I say. Hard to face them.
Hard to walk away.
We looked after Dad for years after Mum died
and then it got too much.
 
How long will it go on?
That’s what I ask myself.
I lie awake at night with worry.
I think he’s lonely but… his voice trails off.
He lifts the chair.
I help him walk it through the hall.
Load it in his car.
 
He hands me a folded banknote.
I briefly grip his hand
He leaves with the chair he came for.
 

Susan Jane Sims

poem published in ARTEMISpoetry, 2024