There’s a certain value placed on things that are passed down. Things that belonged to someone else before us. Things that had a life before we knew them. Even if those things aren’t all that valuable to the rest of the world, they hold a place in our homes and in our hearts. They’re valuable because at the same time that they belong to us, they also remind us of someone from another time in our lives.
That was how I felt about those chairs.
My parents loved them. And I loved them. They were a facet in our home and a place around which much of our time was centered. Whether that time was spent watching television, cheering on our team or enjoying movie night, they always had a place there.
They were there for countless morning coffees, late night studying sessions and for my parents, very late nights soothing babies. Over time their existence felt less like a piece of furniture and more like a piece of the family. They accompanied us on every move. Every new house had a space carved out specifically for them: living room, nursery, office or den.
When I arrived to my house one day to find those same chairs welcoming me I suddenly felt, for the first time, like I was truly home. They came to me worn and frayed, but that was to be expected. They had given years of comfort to my family, both adults and children alike. They had been a play thing, from race car track to our dog’s not-so-secret snuggle spot and my parent’s space to unwind after a long day.
They may be a bit worn, but isn’t that the case with all good things; those chairs show proof of a life well loved.