The Chair That Ate the Family

Grandpa's recliner groaned on cue,
like ancient bones remembering youth;
he'd lean it back—the whole thing cried,
then swallowed him with wounded pride.

The footrest launched like pent-up rage,
a bear trap entering middle age;
one cousin lost a flip-flop there—
three birthdays passed. It reappeared.

Between the cushions: buried lore—
dead batteries, crumbs, remotes galore

Between the cushions: buried lore—
dead batteries, crumbs, remotes galore;
loose change, receipts, one mystery sock,
an archaeological family plot.

We joked that chair was surely cursed,
but somehow loved the monster worse;
it kept what ordinary years let go—
our crumbs, our laughter, Grandpa's ghost.

Written by Kiana Jimenez