The Weight of His Chair | Sam Aureli
The Weight of His Chair
I sit in his chair—
leather cracked, spine-sprung,
still warm with memory.
It tilts, slightly off-balance,
as if even now unsure
how to hold me.
Around me, the room spills over—
sermons stacked in leaning towers,
paperclips rusting in jam jars,
receipts from decades ago
filed by no logic I can decipher.
Drawers bristle with broken pens,
old prescriptions, notes to himself
written in a hand growing looser,
like thoughts slipping their leash.
He always seemed so certain—
a man of answers,
of polished shoes and pointed truths.
But here, the clutter speaks louder:
the chaos he never let show,
the secrets he buried
under layers of order.
I sift through it all—
not to bring him back,
but to see if there was ever
anything softer
beneath the storm.
But nothing holds.
His gospel dissolves into post-it notes
faded to blank.
Still, I stay seated,
letting the silence fill in
what he never said.
The chair groans beneath me—
not in protest,
but in memory.
About the Author:
Sam Aureli, originally from Italy and now based in Boston, is a design and construction professional working in real estate development. When he’s not immersed in concrete and steel, he writes poetry rooted in the elemental textures of the world. He came to poetry later in life as a refuge from the noise, a way to pause and listen more closely to what the world quietly offers. His poems have appeared, or are forthcoming, in The Atlanta Review, Sontag Mag, Humana Obscura, Prosetrics The Magazine, Stanchion Magazine, Crow & Cross Keys, among other literary journals.