by Marc Darnell
I bought a gray recliner, I've never even been in it—it's for guests, and ghosts. I wonder if it's plusherthan the black, almost broken one, so ancient,I'm sitting in right now, I'll never know. I'd rathersee the television from this angle, imagine someone
lives with me, but they're always in the kitchen,at the store, the movies, or went to bed at ten.I don't remember my father having a place to recline,to call his own. We five hogged the furniture,the food, the TV set—we stomped out silence beforehe ever came home from a double shift. This reclinercan be his, a laid-back memorial, softerthan a tombstone, an homage to all dads who yieldedin their fatigue to wild brats who should be in bed.