The armchair next to the stove
I had the best seat in the house:
Cuddled up in the armchair, next to the stove, all loved up and all warmed up.
Sometimes rain pelted the world outside.
Some other times the window would trap frozen moonlight in its glass.
Most times there wasn’t anything noteworthy going on.
From the observer’s eye, the scene in itself was nothing remarkable. Only three people watching an old TV, exchanging pleasantries, drifting off to sleep.
For us, however, the setup was extraordinary. The sweet perfume of resonance and belonging draping the room, the safety of an enclosed nest, the assurance we gave each other was truly special.
As the cold dusk enveloped the walls, either you or she would doze off, but the tiny human’s never ending questions kept you awake.
I would ask a million questions.
Both impatient and querulous, I would not settle for silence, so I inquired about everything that happened in the Realm behind the old TV screen.
You were both so, so, tired.
After finishing the chores of the day, after the supper and the cleaning up, sheltered in the dim-lit room, you were exhausted, worn-out.
And the tiny human with her curiosity and nagging questions drained you out even more.
Yet, you never raised your voice, rolled your eyes, or shushed the tiny human.
It didn’t matter for you.
Even if you were tired, exhausted, or sick, you would still carefully read the subtitles aloud.
Slowly, so I would understand every word, line by line, scrolling on the screen, distorted by the static, you helped me make sense of the scenes unfolding in front of our eyes.
Each answer sparked another question, a web spreading around the tiny room, and the ritual went on every night, every night, every night, carried out in the exact same way.
The same sequence of events unfolding themselves — endlessly stretched across all those beautiful years.
As each day would go to sleep, the sun will make everything velvet, the poultry was tucked and locked, the animals were dosing off, until one could only hear the croaking and the crickets outside.
You would hang your hat — that looked like it had seen as many good and bad days as you had — and wash your face, always wash your face, then call us in and we would nestle there.
The gate was locked.
The night, cascading over us.
I could hear the crackling noises of the fire. I could hear your voices, reading aloud, your words translating all that was happening on the screen.
Line by line, line by line, line by line.
The pacing was fast, scenes moved quickly to make room for other scenes.
I would fall off the track soon enough, actors would talk and fight and shout and punch through walls before you could catch up to them.
So I would ask and nag and cry again.
The two of you spent your life together, raised another life, brought her up and let her fly and be free. She would give you the gift of life in return, send back another tiny soul, to be raised and brought up and loved by you too.
And you would do it all over again, with grace and humility, with generosity and warmth, with care and with love.
You were two honest people enjoying the third act of life being tasked with the task of raising a tiny human and making her a real person, one day at a time, until she was ready to fly on her own.
That’s how I ended up in the armchair, next to the stove, to be all warmed and all loved up.
I would not understand why the big people were fighting on the screens and I could not comprehend why the adults at the table were laughing, but I could always count on you and her to read aloud and explain and make sense of what I didn't know back then.
Until the night passed away and the sun was making everything shine again and the air was cold and the grass was wet and you decided today would be the day.
That morning, she sat me down at the big table, and my feet didn’t touch the carpet, but she took out the book and started to spell out every letter and gave me the power to make sense of the words myself.
One by one, one by one, one by one, syllable by syllable, I would understand why the big people were fighting on the screens and I would comprehend why the adults at the table were laughing.
And I would understand the worlds hidden inside your stacks of books and my own world opened up a thousand times and we never looked back at the times when you couldn’t enjoy the night’s rest because I needed help understanding your world.
Until one other morning, it was a Sunday morning, we just came back from Worship and she went to cook our lunch, mush potatoes and chicken stew, with potatoes from our own crop, and you sat me on the armchair where I felt all warmed up and all loved up.
You took down the Big Circle, told me that was a clock and you told me that’s how people measured time and you showed me the big hand, and you showed me the small hand and I said I can count to 10, I can read it.
To which you replied:
“Don’t stop at 10, never stop at 10, but learn more, because you need to make sense of the numbers and understand why the big hand is sometimes zero, other times it’s a half, but most times it just shows how much you have left.”
And you said:
“Go beyond 10 and learn more, because sometimes the small hand is misleading and you need to understand if there’s a lot of time left, or you’ve already run out of it.”
You said I need to know where one’s at, “or else you are a log and logs get carried away by water, but if you know where you are at and who you are, then you become an anchor and anchors don’t get carried away.”
So I learned and I moved past 10 and I almost had it, but we were interrupted by laughter and a surprise hello and the smell of freshly baked apple pie.
It was morning again, and you said I needed to get out of the armchair and even though I was feeling all warmed up and all loved up, you said you have to teach me something and I’d love it.
I got excited and she held my hand and talked to me while you took out the old Volvo from the garage — your pride and joy, you always loved hot cars and beautiful women — and she told us to take care while seeing us off from the gate, arms folded around herself.
You sat me in driver’s seat and you showed me the clutch and the brake and the stick. You said I had to be careful and mindful and I had to set an intention and be in full control and pay close attention, otherwise we would both get really, really hurt.
And I wasn’t scared, because you weren’t, but I got scared later, when you told me to let go and pump the gas and I thought of all the people we would meet on our way.
But you said I shouldn’t worry, they are on their own path and I only need to mind myself and the clutch and the break and the stick and pay attention, and let go and let loose, because I can do that and the old Volvo can take it and so I did.
I steered us both into a beautiful meadow and we watched the sun making everything velvet and you said it was beautiful and in exchange for leaving that view behind, and I understood exactly what you meant.
One moment later, then the sun was fire, so we drove back to the smell of apple pie. You cursed because I wasn’t going fast enough, and I wasn’t mad, that’s just who you were, and I wasn’t worried, I knew we were safe and I would get there and I would drive us someplace beautiful.
I knew I could go fast, I just needed more time, but then I remembered about the big hand and the small hand, so I went faster and showed you I knew where I was at and where you were at.
It was evening again and it was time to go back to the armchair and feel all warmed up and all loved up and watch the old screen TV.
But this time I wouldn’t need you, I could make sense of the symbols scrolling on the screen by myself.
In fact, in the meantime I started to make sense of the strange Realm on my own and it was my time to help you both make sense of the unknown and translate the world you grew out of.
And sometimes I was tired and other times I would’ve worked all day and maybe I was even sick, but I remembered the times when I was a tiny human in your space and you would show me the Big Circle and the armchair was next to the stove and I was all warmed up and all loved up.
So I would talk and explain and tell you how I made sense of reality and you would listen and not quite understand, but it didn’t matter, because you would call me your child with a smile and a warm embrace and I could talk for hours and hours and hours as long as you would listen and ask questions, each answer sparking another question, the web closing us off in our tiny little world.
This morning, the armchair is empty.
We reached two opposing ends of life.
The Big Circle is ticking worthlessly and I ran out of time.
As I am now, I am no longer all warmed up I am no longer all loved up.
But it doesn’t matter.
Because I will always remember when you were a teacher, but also a learner, and we would both return to the same universe at some point and when that will happen, you will remind me that I don’t need to stop at 10, that I am in control, that anchors don’t get carried away and you should not mind the people on their own path, but focus on being careful and not hurting the people around you.
And you will laugh, the fire will burn in the stove next to the armchair, you’ll be all loved up and all warmed up.
