Oh how my Dad loved his armchair. His treasured prize. It heard his blues and embraced his sighs. He'd come home from work, and plop in exhaustion, on an old tattered, worn out, cushion. We would all linger near, til he waved us over. He'd tell us a story, until it was supper. In the evening he'd sit, and watch us all play, and when it was bedtime, by his armchair, we'd pray. Many a time, I saw my Dad cry. He would hold my Mother, and say," This too will pass by." Sometimes, if I was out late, He'd be there waiting. His fingers drumming, watching the drive yard, anticipating. When my Dad passed away, I sat in his chair, I closed my eyes, and felt him there. I learned how much, the heart can bear. Seeing my Dad, sitting in his armchair. Dedicated to my Dad, Buster.