I sat in Lunchroom Martens on the Oudburg this morning, enjoying my tropical sandwich, yogurt and granola, and latté.

Fran (the owner) and Lieve (her mother) were busy assembling chairs.  It’s a lot of work to put ten of them together.

I found myself thinking about chairs.  Why not?  Maybe tomorrow I’ll write about tables.

I reflected on the one I was sitting on.  It was dark brown, worn at the seams, and heavy.  It’s done the job for months.

Soon two of the new ones were assembled and placed at the neighbouring table.  They were bright orange.  I couldn’t resist going over for a sit.

I pulled the orange one out.  It slid easily.  And the fabric … so soft.  My bum felt at home in a second.  Good choice, Fran.

And then my mind went quiet, even as the thoughts continued to roll.  Imagine someone who’s depressed coming for breakfast.  The world is closing in, pressing hard.  But the orange chair beckons in all its loveliness.  Perhaps the hand rubs across the fabric … again and again.  In the sitting is the cuddling.  A place to rest.

It might help