Chair is my green recliner who has been with me through three moves, a brief exile while he was in storage, and the unwanted ministrations of my assorted pets, not to mention dinners and wine in front of the TV.
I refer to him as my miracle chair. For some reason Chair seems to shed body parts from time to time. One day I'll discover a spring just under his foot. Another time it will be a bolt or a screw. I've never been able to discover where these parts come from or what possible function they served as Chair seems to operate fully without them. So, I tuck them away in a drawer in a little box just in case I have a Eureka moment some day or Chair goes into a mysterious decline.
I wonder if, like the Wonderful One Horse Shay, he might suddenly disintegrate before my eyes one day with no warning—after years of perfect performance, maybe all of him will go down at the same time. Maybe I'll wake up in the morning to a little pile of green fabric where he once stood in all his glory.
If that ever happened I would take the scraps of faded fabric and add them to the bits and bobs he's expectorated over the years and give him a proper burial in the back garden. I'd give him a little salute and toast him with a taste of the red wine his arms and seat have become accustomed to over the years. Perhaps I'd shed a tear for all the support he's given me.
The bits and bobs included with his box of internment would go with him to Chair heaven. Perhaps St. Peter can figure out how to put him back together. But if St Peter finds Chair as comfortable as I did, there could be a long waiting line at the Pearly Gates.