There is a small chair next to one of the windows in my bedroom. The back cushion is soft and the seat is just firm enough. The chair, covered in an off-white and blue fabric, has a matching footstool. It is older than my children and has travelled with me to four homes. It began it’s life in my bedroom, spent a decade or so in a guest room, and is now back in my room. It is the spot where I curled up and slept when I was close to giving birth to my first born. I sat in that chair watching President Clinton’s first inauguration, mesmerized as Maya Angelou shared “On the Pulse of Morning” with the world. It’s the spot where I retreated to read when my babies napped each afternoon. I was glued to that chair as O.J. Simpson led the police on a chase along the freeway in Los Angeles. I sat in that chair smocking dresses for my little girls. Lately, the chair has been home to my piles… mail…laundry… knitting projects. But yesterday I cleared all of that away. The chair is bare. Ready for sitting and memory making again.