Her Name Is Maple

I sit on the floor staring at the chair in front of me. It’s old and rickety and doesn’t wish to be used, which means I can’t move it, can’t sit in it, can’t put anything on it; this chair is just setting in the corner, facing out the window. The legs of the chair are spindly and long, the feet curved shoes for rocking, its seat narrow and ornate. Carvings of vines and flowers cover the chair- across the headrest over the armrests into the seat and down the legs wrapping around the feet. The back is wide, padded, a leather cover to be aesthetically pleasing. I stare at it, cross legged on the floor, wondering what she wants now; why she is so quiet and unmoving.