Two Chairs, One Story

Two chairs on a porch, worn smooth in all the right places. Her coffee, his tea, six in the morning, wind chimes she hung in 'eighty-five, crossword half-done between the two of you, arguing five-across, so alive. The whole street knows you by the porch light — first on at dusk, last off at night — sixty years of keeping watch over everybody's lives. Every road we drive bends back to that porch. Two chairs, one story — the one the whole family is from. Every name at every table started with the two of you, young. Happy Grandparents Day — sit down, stay there. Let us bring the coffee for once. Grandma keeps the birthdays in a notebook, Grandpa keeps the cars all running right, between them they have caught every falling kid this family ever dropped mid-flight. The kitchen smells like cinnamon and engine grease — somehow that's exactly love — two people who decided once and never once gave up. Every road we drive bends back to that porch. Two chairs, one story — the one the whole family is from. Every name at every table started with the two of you, young. Happy Grandparents Day — sit down, stay there. Let us bring the coffee for once. The grandkids' grandkids will hear about the porch, the chimes, the light — how two chairs held a dynasty and a crossword every night. Two chairs, one story — the one the whole family is from. Every name at every table started with the two of you, young. Happy Grandparents Day — sit down, stay there. Let us bring the coffee for once. Two chairs on a porch. Don't you move a thing.