the handle is hardly attached. the seats no longer cushioned. the plaid has faded to a dull blur, and yet the chair beckons.
i fall back without wondering what will catch me – doubt put on hold by the slow, easy descent. halfway airborne, the footstool unfolds, eager to meet me on landing.
but the pilling fabric begins to stick, the springs jab hard at my squirming skin. i reach for the handle to right my sinking ship but it snaps . . . a shipwrecked oar.
a last gulp before the dive.
headrest meets footstool and i am folded over. swallowed. stomach to knees, spinning beneath the faded plaid. down into the dirty down, grasping for change, trash, a lost boy’s lego . . . i reach the floor. the end.
from this vantage, below, i know: not all rest is easy. not all stillness comfortable.