Enveloped in the delicate ballet of morning light, my dad’s chair, dressed in a palette of soft whites and light blues, rests in the warmth. For years, it had been a silent observer of our almost nomadic lifestyle. But now, it holds within its frame memories of a presence admired from miles away. 

The room the chair calls home is adorned with maps of the Middle East and France, each contouring a testament to the world my dad has traversed in his lifetime. Bach and Beethoven dance through the air like forgotten whispers. A picture of him as a boy, mounted proudly on a camel, bears witness to his adventures in faraway lands that he still pursues- a snapshot of a life well-lived. His “treasure box,” as he calls it, is stowed away on his favorite shelf next to books about George Kennan, his hero, and Henry Kissinger, who he tells me is a complicated man. 

In the center of the room is a rich Middle Eastern rug. The rug is pillowed by delicate threads of our dog’s hair and faint footprints that remain everlasting from late-night laughs and lectures about continuous tensions in Armenia, his ancestral home. My dad’s chair is positioned strategically upon this rug, facing the window that frames a world of memories. It was as though my dad had choreographed this arrangement, ensuring that he was never too far from the world he loved. 

The chair, with its soft cushion and firm armrests, has cradled him through countless hours of thought. I often found him there, gazing out the window at the overgrown garden he loves so much, with a book lying flat upon his desk, waiting to be picked up again. A mountain of books and piles of unorganized files, his constant companions, surrounded the chair- a testament to his insatiable thirst for a nuanced understanding of the world we live in. 

Then there was the crease.

A subtle indentation in the cushion of his chair, a physical manifestation of his presence. It was a mark that lasted for mere days before slowly rising, like a ghost returning to its delicate realm, only to reappear each time he sat. It was a reminder that wherever the chair was, there was my dad, his essence imprinted upon the very fabric of the chair. 

But now, the crease is no more; too much time has passed. The crease, that tangible connection to his presence, has vanished. In its place, there is only the empty chair, a silent witness of the void left by his absence. Since he left, the morning light seems less radiant, and the chair's soft blue has taken on a grayish hue as if yearning for the warm presence it once caressed. Once vocal in their silent eloquence, the books have lost their allure; their siren call to pluck them from the shelves and savor their wisdom has faded into a quiet melancholy. 

As I sit in the empty chair, I am reminded that although the crease may be gone, my dad’s presence is still intertwined with my life.