Title: The shabby chair
Word Count 376
Disclaimer Not mine
The Shabby Chair
The room was bright and well appointed. It shone, and it was hers alone. Her eyes, opened to the morning could enjoy a large window, and the gleam of her mahogany writing desk. The hangings of her bed were a delicate green. Her bath steamed gently, ready for her to step into it. The mail had come, and her silver chocolate pot. Her dressing gown was silk, and ready for after that.
This morning she saw none of it. Her eyes rested on a small chair, pushed into the corner now, and covered with a paisley throw. She could not say why she kept it, as a talisman maybe. Because in that chair she had been someone else. She had not been a Countess, or a lady of privilege. She had not been any of her names, not even simply Mary. In that shabby chair, she had rested her sore back. At the end of her confinements it had been the only place she could bear to sit. It had been the only chair she could get back out of. She had shivered in that chair as her pains began, and she readied herself, in her fear. And, in that chair she had nursed her babies. In that chair she had had one name, that was barely a word, more a sound of repletion. In that chair she had only been Mamma.
She had held Archie there; her last boy. She remembered the smell of his skin, his dark blue eyes fixed on hers from the start. His little hand, spread against her breast, and the blister that came on the center of his upper lip. She remembered them all. She was Mamma.
For two years she had tried not to weep. When she had failed she had done so alone. She had no idea where Robert had done his weeping.
But today she let it all go. She clutched the letter to her breast, and lunged for her chair. The tears were wetting her teeth, her smiling shaking mouth. The bell was there, but she called instead, and her voice was strong and strange.
“Robert! Get Robert for me! Archie has written. He's alive!”