My husband and I bought the matching brown velvety chairs the year after we married. They’ve been with us for forty-six years. The fabrics are worn, and the mechanisms, replaced twice, are grinding again, but, like dear friends, we can’t seem to part with them. 

I nursed both of our daughters while warm and cozy within the curved arms of the chairs. They not only recline, but they rock, to help babies fall asleep. Once the children grew, there was still enough room for three of us to read books together if one child perched on a padded arm.

We have a home video of our son figuring out the cushions could serve as a trampoline. He tossed his youngest sister onto it. She giggled and asked for more. Once the kids realized the cushions were easily removed, the squares became fort walls. With the help of the couch cushions, they could escape their parents and create a world of their own.

The cushions acted as shields from firing Nerf guns, ramps for hot wheel cars, and stepping stones to keep river explorers safe from alligators.

The chairs also served my husband and me as a respite from the children. We sometimes schemed to interest the kids in an evening activity. Once they were engaged, we’d sneak away, adult beverages in hand, and settle into the chairs. Our hope was for a few minutes to ourselves so we could watch TV shows like “Cheers” or “Dynasty.” (We seldom got away with this.)

My husband and I aren’t the only ones who have cherished chairs. Think of the show Frazier and you’ll recall his father’s vomit-green recliner duck taped together. Archie Bunker, from the classic TV show “All in the Family,” also had a beloved chair. The orange-yellow upholstered wing chair was purchased at a thrift shop for the TV set. It’s now housed in The Smithsonian.

Our own chairs have been comfortable seats (and sometimes beds) for my brother who had back pain and for our aging parents. “Kick back and relax,” we often said, and they did, sometimes taking the opportunity to snooze.

The chairs supported us when we received troubling news about the death of family members or friends or our world. They saw us through the Challenger’s explosion, the bombing of the World Trade Center, and news about school shootings.

They were also box office seats where we could cheer on the Packers, escape the crowd to watch unobstructed footage of the Times Square ball dropping on New Year’s Eve, and front-row theatre seats to view our children perform plays for us. They are an important part of the family.

It doesn’t seem right, but, sadly, the tattered chairs have been designated for the cabin’s garage. My husband and I visit them regularly, though. He likes to stoke up the wood-burning stove and sit in one of the chairs, which has the perfect support for his back and neck—he’s never found another that compares—and read novels or magazines. I curl up with a notebook. 

I realize a truck will need to haul these long-time companions away one day. I stroke the familiar velvety material. It saddens me to think that their life stories will soon be lost. Then I get an idea.

I put pen to paper and as I finish, I’m content to know that the chairs' stories just might live on.