The black chair sits in my basement. Lonely it remains covered in old college texts books. The leather is cracked—split open from my grandpa’s long hours of crossword puzzles from every newspaper in town. I used to sit on the long, spongy arm, and watch over his shoulder, analyzing every black letter he wrote, never making one single mistake. The thin leather frays with the soft sent of “Brut” aftershave, applied to his rounded face daily. The memories spent on that black sofa are endless; I ate my tomato soup with the tiny star pastina floating around everyday after a.m. kindergarten. We would compete to see who could get the stars to one side of the bowl the quickest. Then as “The Price is Right” gleamed on the large black TV, we would scream prices in the appliance swap game, the loud smack of our clap when we guessed the correct sequence. The adrenaline rushed through our veins as we watched the wheel spin over and over beeping loudly, hoping our favorite contestant landed on the flashing, green $1.00 block. Sitting on that large black chair felt like home, it was the center of my childhood when my plump “Coochela” sat in the middle with me on his lap. Now that he is gone, and the leather sits covered in my families junk, it gets harder and harder to remember how it felt to be with him. That chair meant so much more than a comfy place to sit and talk; it was where he became my best friend and the one man I miss more than anything.