An Offering for Encounters

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.

Karen,
my beloved stepmother,
gently questioned the memory.
She recalled his oversized office chair,
his large desk in the bedroom.
She gave me a pass—
“writer’s literary license,”
she said—
and reminded me
that he would be proud,

She confessed regret
for not editing
his manuscript
when he asked.

We all do
the best we can,
she said.
And that
is the best we can do.

I replied with reverence.
I remember his voice
on the phone,
insisting that comfort
was not required for truth.

I admired his belief
and assumed
he practiced it.

I miss him very much.
Hardly a day passes
that I do not wish he
were still with us—
especially now
that I am finally writing
on a regular basis.

This memory
may be imperfect.
But it was shaped
to honor him.

And in that shaping,
I see the altar
I now write from—
not a crate,
not a throne,
but a chair
that remembers.