Chairs

They’re the button scratch, couch hut, hairdressing chairs. There’s another man coming to pick up our chairs. Our scrapbooks.

We’re going to sit on the floor with no button scratches, only tickly threads and cat hair. I wonder if the next man has cats? Cats that sit on chairs. I wonder if he has pants with scratchy buttons?

The couch hut chairs have protected us from life. And boogie monsters. And the chairs carry our dinner stories and homework tears.

They kept us safe from earthquakes and vegetables. Vegetables that magically end up under the chairs.

“How did that get there?” Mum asked, pulling out broccoli, three peas and two beans.

“I dunno, I think the chair stole it.” I said.

I hope the next chairs can steal my veges too.