I look around and see the walls painted with that pink color that everyone over the age of 65 has in their living room. I can still make out the strokes from the paintbrush my grandfather used so many years ago. I know, sitting in this chair, that I am comfortable and safe. Each little rip, tear, and snag along the arms was caused by some argument over the remote, or my nervous hands during a scary movie. I know that the scratchy, blue blanket is always in reach right above my head, even though I will never grab for it. I am also aware of the blue pillow, with hand finished crochet, always there to match. My legs, tangled within my cousin’s old nightgown, are riddled with goosebumps.

As I look to my right, I see the crumbled up Hershey Kisses wrappers from my grandfather; scattered across the floor under the glass end-table. On top I see a white porcelain ashtray that has not been used for ages, but still remains as a symbol of passed time. The wooden paneled door that leads to the front porch is swung wide open. The only thing separating me from the chilly fall breeze is the finger-printed glass door with the gold plated handle. The marble-topped divider to the left is strewn with my grandfather’s glasses, keys, and wallet.

As I sit there, clicking through cartoons, I can hear the creak of the steps as he comes down. My grandfather stops, almost at the bottom, and grabs the broken shoe horn that he gently places into his black penny loafers. His red plaid shirt matches his ever so soft scarf which he has laced perfectly around his neck. I know that now he will continue into the little room off the dining room to get his black wool coat and matching cap.

Through the thin walls, I hear my grandmother in the kitchen; shuffling across the tile floor in the newly painted, blue-walled kitchen. I listen as she puts the old coffee can, filled to the brim with a mixture of sugar packets, back into the cabinet. The sound of the french toast sizzling in the skillet warms my body and brings with it a sense of comfort and warmth. With the light wooden tray table at my side, I am more than ready for my breakfast to begin my day, which I know will be full of running throughout the alleyways and chasing my neighborhood friends.
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Sometimes I wonder where that old blue chair is now: maybe at the bottom of a landfill, maybe torn to bits in a factory, or maybe, just maybe in another grandparent’s home. I know that the pictures previously plastered on their cabinets and walls are now dispersed amongst my family. I know that the Steelers Terrible Towel that used to be in the window of the living room is now sitting on my windowsill. I know that the shoehorn my grandfather once used on a daily basis is sitting in my mother’s closet, secretly tucked away so no one can find it. And I am sure that my grandparents, wherever they may be, are looking at me with the same loving eyes and open heart that I have been looking at them with since I was just a little kid, sitting in that monstrous blue chair.