The next morning, I went over again. Still nothing. So I called a wellness check.
Turns out Mr. Dalen had fainted in his kitchen. Dehydration and exhaustion.
They took him to the hospital. He was okay, thankfully, but it shook me up. While he was recovering, I went out of my way to find those exact chairs—white, with the circular holes in the middle.
Took me two counties and a random roadside hardware store that didn’t even take cards, but I found them. I brought them home, cleaned them up, and set them in his backyard just like he’d want. When he came back from the hospital a few days later, he stopped short the moment he saw them.
He didn’t say anything for a long time. Just stood there, lips pressed tight, eyes blinking a little too fast. Then he sat down.
Closed his eyes. The sky was overcast that day, just a whisper of drizzle starting up. He didn’t move.
“Would you like some coffee?” I asked. He smiled without opening his eyes. “Black.
Just like Nadine made it.”
We sat there in silence, the rain tapping lightly through the holes of those chairs, draining into the earth. And I finally understood—it was never about the chairs. It was about the way people hold onto small things when they’ve lost big things.
Those holes? They were a memory. A way to still feel close to someone who wasn’t there anymore.
To recreate even the tiniest piece of a moment they used to love. So if someone asks you for something specific—even if it seems strange—don’t dismiss it. There’s usually a story behind it.
A reason deeper than what they’re saying out loud. We all carry memories in odd-shaped containers. Sometimes it’s a song.
Sometimes it’s a smell. And sometimes… it’s a plastic chair with a hole in the middle. ❤️ If this story touched you, share it with someone who understands the beauty in small things.
👍 Like it if you’ve ever found meaning in something that seemed meaningless at first.
