Once she had moveable arms. Back when her legs were sturdy and strong, Harriet played tennis with those legs, her calves shapely beneath a flirty white tennis skirt. The swish of the pleats as they grazed the back of her ass, sensual, like an unexpected breeze when she would sit by the river with whatever boyfriend she hoped would kiss her lips, slowly at first and then passionately. And those moveable arms, bronzed a deep shade of mahogany after days on the court practicing the overhead reach for a serve, stretching to volley the return drive. The synapses in her brain firing, the way they did then, anticipating her challenger’s next play.

At the end of a match, she would be ravenous for food: the sweet tang of citrus, the salty crisp of French fries slathered in catsup, the primal smell of a roasted chicken.

Now all she eats is white bread, broken off bit by bit. Her fingers are gnarled, her arms stiff at the elbows. Her ass is as wrinkled as a deflated ball, her back curved like a wooden shelf with the weight of too many books and their stories.

Harriet has become an object.

She is moved from corner to corner at the whim of others.

Sit by this window, sweetie, and I’ll check on you later.

Let’s place you by the TV to watch a program.

Honey, stay at the table, and here’s our napkin.

Not a club, wingback, kitchen, rocking, recliner, dining, Adirondack, folding, wheel, high or ladder-back chair.

Harriet has become as unremarkable and as unnoticed as a chair in the corner of any room.

Only a chair.

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For Margaret Camille Berliant, writing is a logical extension of her lifetime love of stories. Her mother and grandmother before her brought family lore to life through the art of vibrant storytelling. Teaching the deaf helped her understand the value of language in all its forms, and her years of work as a psychotherapist revealed the power in the language of the heart. She lives in Rochester, New York.