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Wooden Chair

I place a candle on the wooden chair at my bedside. The tree at the window gives a loud tap,
and I startle. Shh, a voice says. Who’s there? I ask. It’s alright, says the wooden chair. The tree
just wants to come in. Many want to come in, but can’t bear the getting here. My candle
flickers. Did you die when you were cut down? I ask. Of course not, says the chair. Can’t you
hear my voice? I watch him sit completely still. Did you want to come in? I ask. Did you want to
be cut down? He creaks. I’ve seen many things as a tree, and many things as a chair. When you
stand on me, I know every place your bare feet have carried you. Sometimes, we don’t know
what we want until we have it.

--Bethany T., Adult