Ruth continued.
“I still would’ve picked him up at the airport.”
***
After the call, Mom and I sat beside the blue chair for a long time.
A week later, I took it to my apartment.
Mom objected immediately.
“Annie, that’s your father’s chair.”
“I know, Mom.”
I placed it at my kitchen table.
The following Sunday, Mom came over for coffee.
She stopped when she saw me sitting in it.
For a moment, I thought she’d ask me to get up.
She didn’t.
Instead, she sat across from me.
Dad’s faded photograph lay between us.
Mom turned it around and pointed to the woman beside the cooler.
“That’s the woman who raised him.”
I studied the tiny figure.
The blue chair shifted beneath me, tapping unevenly against the floor.
Mom glanced down.
“Still does that.”
“Yeah.”
She pushed the sugar bowl toward me.
Outside, Oregon rain streaked the window.
I stayed in Dad’s chair.
