A Lonely Chair

A lonely chair sits,
waiting,
just like that last step on the stair permits itself to be missed,
when children, too eager for the ground, bound forward
toward the back-porch door.
It does not creak as they squeal and squeak, mid-leap, above it.
Nor will the nearby chair, still waiting, make a single sound in protest.
The light makes fun of it's wooden frame,
the same way rain will tease the breeze that Mother prayed for.
"Washing's on the line," she'd whine, and straight away look sunward for the time.
The bitter cloud that spits upon her linen, white and useful,
also shifts to pass the pane the window's used for,
casting shadows on that grateful wooden chair,
bare, but crafted with more care than Grandpa's ever dared to share.
The children tag and chase, excitement stained upon each face;
no rain could ever wash these games of war or space exploring
clean from youth's eager embrace.
Each drop falls harder now and these trees provide no shelter
as plans of lands to conquer tumble down, all helter-skelter.
Ah, but now Father's here
and tricks and dares are quickly quashed in fear
Like ants we squash without a care.
Forgotten is the joy that sprung before
as little feet trudge wet across the floor.
Marching up that lonely bottom stair
to where, no doubt, a shower's been prepared
so as to wash the leaves and twigs and tangles from their hair.
One floor below, Mother sighs and rests back
in her lonely wooden chair,
The one her Pa made,
but never quite finished it's pair.