This old chair is one of a set of six we have scattered around our house. They belonged to my maternal grandfather, I remember them from when we visited him as children.
We don’t use them much these days, they are a bit uncomfortable, sagging springs and joints that aren’t as strong as they were. But when I was younger I often sat on them round the tea table with my grandparents. I can remember twiddling the loose spindles on the back, and rubbing the smooth brass studs along the fabric edge, often impatient and wanting to run off and play. The sun always seemed to be shining through the windows when we stayed with them, although I also remember the excitement of snow when we visited them one Easter.
It’s strange where memories go; this old chair holds many of mine, mainly forgotten until I sat down and drew its shape this morning and found them reappearing like ghosts from the faded velvet covers.