When Beverly Peterson moved from her family home into Schooner Estates, she sorted through her photo albums and found a poem her grandson, Brad Peterson, wrote in 2008 when he was in college. The poem was prompted by memories of his grandfather, Richard Peterson, who died in 1998 when Brad was 10 years old.

Richard spent his last month of life in a chair in the family home rather than climb into a hospital bed, and his entire family was with him at the house during his last three weeks of life. Many times, his grandchildren sat on his lap as the family gathered around to share stories and celebrate his life.

Beverly has treasured the poem and shares it this Father’s Day:

Grandfatherʼs chair

My grandfatherʼs chair has yet to move,
although the owner long since left.

The frayed violet exterior daily fades into grey.

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I hesitantly take a seat.
The coarse cloth rakes across my skin.
Those mean, milky buttons jab me.
The recliner yells sharply if pulled back.

The fabricʼs embedded cigarette smoke
permeates the air, like his husky voice used to.

I only sit for a moment: the chair was his first coffin.

He always would take me to the local arcade when
others ignored my desperate pleas.
I always anticipated the weekly trips to the local ice cream
where you now find a Dunkinʼ Donuts.

A master of tomfoolery,
he lined peas perfectly in his mouth
so they looked like teeth
and ate ketchup with ice cream
just to spite my grandmother.

While watching the Red Sox,
a light beer commercial airs.
With only half the calories, he remarks,
how he can now drink twice as much.

Some of my cousins wonʼt touch the chair;
they remember him better.
I was far too young to fully appreciate
the spirit I would come to miss.

— Brad Peterson, 2008

 

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