Closed his eyes. The sky was overcast that day, just a whisper of drizzle starting up. He didn’t move.
“Would you like some coffee?” I asked. He smiled without opening his eyes. “Black.
Just like Nadine made it.”
We sat there in silence, the rain tapping lightly through the holes of those chairs, draining into the earth. And I finally understood—it was never about the chairs. It was about the way people hold onto small things when they’ve lost big things.
Those holes? They were a memory. A way to still feel close to someone who wasn’t there anymore.
To recreate even the tiniest piece of a moment they used to love. So if someone asks you for something specific—even if it seems strange—don’t dismiss it. There’s usually a story behind it.
A reason deeper than what they’re saying out loud. We all carry memories in odd-shaped containers. Sometimes it’s a song.
Sometimes it’s a smell. And sometimes… it’s a plastic chair with a hole in the middle. ❤️ If this story touched you, share it with someone who understands the beauty in small things.
👍 Like it if you’ve ever found meaning in something that seemed meaningless at first.
