The Chair…
The Chair
It is bigger than the last one.
That’s the first thing.
Metal.
Bolts.
A widened seat that understands
he is growing
even when behavioral metrics
refuse to.
~
We measure his life now
in inches of clearance,
in adjusted straps,
in footrests lowered
one clicking notch at a time.
~
The call came
softly—
a family
with a chair
that was once filled
by immeasurable
laughter.
~
The chair arrives.
Cleaned.
Adjusted.
Blessed
by hands that learned
how to fasten buckles
without looking.
~
I run my fingers
along the armrest—
not to inspect it,
but to feel
what remains.
~
Bray Bray leans forward
when we settle him in.
Tests the width
with his shoulders.
Presses his red curls
against the new horizon
of headrest foam.
~
He knows
about the girl
with long blonde hair
who lightened the air.
His friend,
his duet partner
at parties.
They sang to each other,
in the same cadence,
harmonizing
without translation.
~
Her chair
now holds his weight
the way it once held hers—
with grace and dignity.
~
Outside,
the afternoon keeps moving.
Inside,
I tighten a screw
and feel
the somber arithmetic
of it all—
one chair
crossing the bridge
between them.
~
Tonight,
when I guide him
from the family room
to bed,
the chair hums
like it remembers
another set of hands.
~
I whisper thank you
into the space
between bolts.
Not upward.
Outward—
to the family
who loosened their grip
so my son
could sit taller
in a world
that does not always
make room.
~
The chair is bigger.
Yes.
But what it carries
is larger still.
~
Behind the poem: This one rocked me — I was literally in tears when I wrote it. Bray Bray’s friend Cadence passed away tragically in December. We are friends with the family. When the call came that they would like Bray Bray to have the large activity chair that belonged to their daughter, we felt all of the grief you could imagine, all over again.
At the same time, it was also their way of carrying Cadence’s legacy forward through Bray Bray— and we know she is looking down on him and smiling. They really were two peas in a pod, communicating in their own way whenever they were together.
Photo: Bray Bray & Cadence
This is one of those poems I wish I never had to write— I am tearing up again and shaking as I type these words. So it’s best I just leave it at this: Cadence, this one’s for you…
~
That’s all from me — Chris B.




I could literally hear the clicks while reading this. Beautiful. I’m so sorry for this great loss.
So common, these words — chair, screw, buckle, hand. But together they land like a full orchestra. I didn't see it coming.