My father once told me
that if I were truly a writer,
I should be able to write
sitting on a milk crate.

He meant it.
I had just shared with him
my intention
to invest in a quality desk chair—

not for luxury,
but for practicality.
I knew
I’d be spending long hours
before a word processor,
and I wanted to honor
that commitment
with a seat that respected
the body bearing the burden.

He objected vociferously.
To him,
substance required austerity.
If the words were true,
they would come
regardless of comfort.
The crate was enough.

Years later,
I spent $300
on a desk chair.

It now sits unused
in my office closet.
I write from a wheelchair now,
padded with an expensive cushion.

It’s not uncomfortable,
but it’s not my sanctuary.
I long to return to my Lazy Boy—
not for indulgence,
but because I perceive it
as a necessary writing tool.

It enfolds me.
It listens.
It remembers.

My father wrote
his autobiography
sitting on a milk crate.

It was crude,
but it told me
who he was.

I write from a chair
that remembers
who I am becoming.

Perhaps both are altars.

If this offering stirred something in you—
a memory,
a question,
a flicker of light—
you are welcome to share
your reflection below.
No need for eloquence.
No need for certainty.
Just a lantern,
gently placed.