Almost all of the furniture in my house is from IKEA.
Of all the furniture in my house, my sister likes one chair.
When we were little, we both sat in the Chair.
Side by side, our legs pressed together on the seat between the arms.
Now I try to sit beside her and she pushes me off.
We don’t both fit in the Chair anymore.

The Chair is blue like dark denim.
(Note that the Chair is not made of denim.)
It has tears from where the cats used to scratch.
Special tape was put over the torn edges.
A blanket was draped over-top to dissuade kitty claws.
But we don’t have cats anymore.

Sometimes my mother is in the mood for change.
Either her hair will change color, or all the furniture will move.
We stand back and move the things where she tells us to.
My sister doesn’t want anything to ever change.
She came home from a visit to our grandparents and
the Blue Chair was not in the same spot anymore.

My sister’s stuff piles up around the Chair.
It doesn’t matter where the Chair has been moved.
Old dishes once filled with Cheez-Its and crackers
And library books upon borrowed books upon her own books
Build impenetrable walls that read, “MY CHAIR. DO NOT SIT HERE.”
The Blue Chair is my sister’s chair, and it always will be.