“We need five feet of clearance for the turning radius,” Clara said, tapping the armrest. “If the ramp comes through the front door, this chair blocks the path.”
I took the opposite side, my thumb rubbing my left palm as I gripped the worn leather. Together we lifted, shifting the dead weight of my favorite chair three feet back toward the fireplace.
As the frame settled, a folded piece of construction paper slipped from the gap between the cushion and the side pocket. It was faded yellow, the edges soft and frayed from years in the dark.
Clara picked it up before I could reach. She unfolded it slowly, her face softening as she looked at the crayon drawing of a blue house with a lopsided chimney.
“Emma drew this the summer before the accident,” Clara said softly, her voice dropping its usual sharp edge. “She was seven.”
I took the paper from her and laid it flat on the mantelpiece, right next to the empty space where my wife Mary’s portrait used to sit.
