Broken, worn, and marred. A bit like me. Perhaps that's why I've kept it for so long.
We have this vintage yellow chair stored away at home. I think my father brought it from some job-site of his decades ago.
The cushion (long gone flat) is badly discolored--several shades a dingy yellow, with golden-brown blotches scattered about. (The Scotchgard stain-and-soil-resistance label is still stapled on the side. Ha!)
The chair's underside crumbles into a powder where the seat and frame join together.
The wooden back is covered with paint-drips and the left armrest has fallen off (you have to push it back into the nail holes).
But for all its problems, it still functions and serves its purpose.
An old soul that's seen better days.
Most would view it as damaged, laugh at its condition, and not want anything to do with it.
God, I know what that feels like.
I have visited this chair many times. Sometimes to sit on it and ponder things, sometimes to play with the armrest and see how soon it'll dislocate from the rest of the chair, and sometimes just to stare at its charm.
For it has character to it and a story to tell!
I won't be able to take the chair with me when I move next month but hopefully my family holds onto it for me.
There's something very special about that yellow chair.