A Round Table Discussion

I walked down the corridor, the long corridor leading to the room marked “Forevermore.” Picture frames hung precariously on the walls, each empty of purpose. I wondered the reason for the vacant display but heard no answer as I wandered on. I finally reached the room, the room of forever, a pale yellow room with no windows. The only illumination came from a crystal chandelier in the center of the room.

Directly under the light fixture was a round table. The mahogany structure was absent of carvings or style; a serviceable piece none the less. Six chairs circled the table and called for guests to be seated. The room was empty of rug or flowers, only the table and chairs. I walked around the perimeter and noticed that each chair was shaped differently.

What is the purpose of this table with mismatched chairs? For that mater, what purpose did this room serve? Was it a dining room for kings of six nations, or six brothers of different interests? No chair seemed dominate although they were adorned differently.

“Hello,” I said and heard my question replay as it echoed. “I seem to be lost, can someone help me?” There was no voice to answer other than the voice I hear inside my head. I was tired and in need of rest, so I pulled out one of the dissimilar chairs and sat.

I heard a voice begin talking, telling me of a love that flourished between a young man and a forbidden young girl, a love that for purposes of morality could never be consummated. The man had been tormented by his desire to have his love, yet he could not act on his need. This chair was becoming uncomfortable so I moved to the next.

The second chair had a softer cushion. I heard the story of this chair. A motherly lady with curvy bottom had occupied this chair for many years in her home. I could smell the rose petal scent of her perfume as I closed my eyes. She had a shrill voice but it was free of hate and made me smile. I liked that chair, but it was not made for a man.

The third chair was more my size and the heavy frame surely belonged to a man. I shut out the light and listened and heard shouts of terror and threats of murder. This man was a warrior who plundered his enemies and beheaded them and stole their women. Before he sold the concubines, he made pleasure with the more desirable few. I wanted to know more but the voice went silent.

The forth chair had held a merchant who dealt in furs and fine fabrics. He traveled far to gather his inventory and sold them at the highest price. On a gathering trip I went and found the condition of the poor people with whom he dealt. Poor they were and the fabrics were woven by children and old women with fingers knotted from arthritis and years of hard work. The man dealt with tribes for the furs and traded liquor and mystery herbs to distract their sense of business. I felt dirty in this chair.

The next chair was painted with a glossy red paint. It was not pretty, at least to my taste, but to another it might be their choice. I sat gingerly for it had no cushion and the seat was slatted. The voice didn’t have to tell me this was a chair of torture. My tail bone instantly complained and I wished I had more fat for padding. I was quick to get up and move to the last chair.

Sereneness came over me and I felt comfort as I had never before felt the very instant I sat in the chair. There was no discomfort to my buttocks or to any other part for that matter. However, after I luxuriated in the bliss for a few moments, I realized there was a heavy burden of responsibility which came with sitting here. It would take a special man to sit here, perhaps a godly man, perhaps God himself.

I quickly stood and replaced the holy chair and stepped away. I was not holy enough to sit there, nor could I be comfortable in that responsibility. I returned to the door through which I had entered and took a final look. This story table did not fit me and I would have to move on. As I followed the corridor of frames without pictures, I wondered. The voice that told me the stories of the chairs, was it real or imaginary?

Chairs have no voice so it had to be imagined my voice of reason told me. If chairs could talk, they could probably walk or dance or even run. It made me laugh as I listened to the voice inside me, my constant companion as I create. Chairs and tables have no stories to tell just the same as mellow yellow rooms with chandeliers. Stories come from the occupants who are human.

If you hear a room or piece of furniture, know it is alright to listen, but it isn’t wise to answer back, especially if you are not alone.