Remnants

[Ann Mintz]

It was my father’s chair, a brown corduroy recliner that sat in front of the big, white tiled fireplace.  The older he got, the worse his Parkinson’s disease,  the harder it became for him to rise from that chair.   I think it was the only place in the house he was truly comfortable, perhaps the only place in a world that had changed so much since he was born in Russia, before the Revolution, since his family vanished  in the Holocaust.  

He must have missed it, after my mother put him in the nursing home.    Then, she sat in the recliner, a tumbler on the small table next to the chair, a gallon of wine on the floor.  When she died, the chair went into the dumpster with the rest of the furniture, too damaged even for Goodwill. 

[Joe Gensle]

heart-tugging and vivid, Ann. I want to say I've read an earlier piece about your parents, as was equally as touched. Excellent. 

[Gita]

I am thinking how hard it must be to see your father age and succumb to Parkinson's.

Then I remember that someone once told me that the children of Holocaust survivors are anhedonic.

I don't see you that way, given the bright life you write about. This is wonderful writing.

[Angela]

I am thinking of how we wear and damage the things (actually, people) we need the most.  Very good.

[Cita]

Ann, I think this is my favorite thing you've ever written.

[Toby Tucker Hecht]

Beautifully expressed contrast between two people.  Yet each one sought out the chair for comfort and peace.  The chair served your family well.  We should all have such a chair.