I used to belong to Ms. Murphy. I remember the days when I was flanked next to her fireplace, my crimson leather sleek and glossy. Ms. Murphy wiped me with a soft cloth and murmured admiringly, “What a nice recliner you are.” In late evenings, she settled on my plush cushion, sipping hot lavender tea.
I didn’t know how many years had passed, but I noticed her shoulder became hunched, her hair turned gray, and her feeble legs couldn’t carry her around. Her son convinced her that she was too old to live alone. On an overcast Sunday, Ms. Murphy moved to a place called “Village Care” with only a middle-sized suitcase.
I was moved to her son’s house, dwelling on an ugly swirled rug in his dim sitting room. Some boys jumped up and down on me. A fierce cat roared to me and scratched my arms with sharp claws. A kid spilled milk on me, leaving white sticky stains. Day after day, I became tattered and odorous.
On a gloomy Sunday, I heard her son calling someone, “Salvation Army? I have a recliner ...” He was talking about me, but I was too tired to listen further.