The Ottoman’s Messiah
On my Dad’s side of the family, my aunt and my uncle and dad each received the same exact rocking chair and matching rocking ottoman for their houses. The rocking chair was intricately designed with springs and pulleys underneath that made it a sort of robotic contraption despite otherwise being made almost entirely of wood. Its feet stayed planted on the ground but the chair itself was able to rock and you could hit a sweet spot where the chair would balance in a back set position. But because this thing was delicate, you could easily swing the whole chair backwards and land crashing on the ground, and this happened all the freaking time to me as a kid. It was great.
7 or 8 years ago, the rocking chair broke. Not a significant amount that made it unusable, but it was definitely broken. We still loved it and used it to the very end. Eventually it’s time came and it was tragically thrown out and replaced by a puffy wine coloured leather rocking seat that, to be honest, is a lot more comfortable, but it’s just not the fucking same. I would trade it just to have the old rocking chair back, no hesitation. The cushions on it were thin and foamy and they were attached to the wooden frame with little strings. The foam pad cushions themselves were covered in a velvety light purple/grey material with a tiny pink three pronged shells dotting the whole thing like polka dots… It was cheesy in the best way. Nothing beat curling up in that honeyed oak 90’s rocking chair.
Now, we always had the chair sitting in the living room, but unlike my dad’s other two siblings, we never used the rocking ottoman. There was never any space for it, so it simply stayed in storage for all these years until 2 days ago when Michael and I discovered the ottoman had been exhumed and was sitting right there before us in the garage!!! Waves of nostalgia flooded over us, and we bickered about who would be the one to keep the rocking ottoman, the last remaining object in this world tying us to the grande rocking chair of our youth. Then we stopped bickering about it and went to Saver’s, and I didn’t think about the ottoman again until late last night when I drove home from your house.
As you know, today, Thursday, is trash day. This means that last night,
my parents had piled the cans on the right side
of our narrow driveway, as they do every week, which meant I had to get out of my car and move the cans out of my way so that I could park. This is probably my least favorite thing. As I got out of my car and hastily walked over to the cans blocking my spot in the driveway, I saw the precious symbol of Michael and I’s youth, the ottoman, left to stew among the trash cans on this last lonely night before being cast out of our lives forever and being reunited with the rocking chair at the dump. I was not going to let that happen.
Thinking quickly on my feet, I picked up the ottoman, clutched it tightly to my chest, and duck waddled it over to my car and shoved it in the trunk where no garbage man could find it. There, it would be safe.
I then went inside and told Michael the story of the ottoman’s rescue, and appointed myself as the rightful heir since tonight I had become the ottoman’s messiah and Michael had unknowingly left it for dead. Were it not for me, it would be gone. He insisted that he should still be the one to get it, that he “called” it, but under these circumstances, he had lost this right. Perhaps I will lend it to him in our college years, but once we move out of the house, the ottoman is MINE.
The end.Update: after we left for college in September, the whereabouts of the ottoman are unknown. Pray for Otto!