There are two chairs in the basement that are broken. They traveled in the U-Haul truck from California in a tattered condition. One is a child's rocking chair, found at an antique store ages ago. My little ones sat in it, at least as long as any two year old sits. But they outgrew them and graduated to regular chairs. I think it is time to drop it off at the thrift store. Or the trash. The other chair is the biggest wedding gift we received... a genuine Amish rocker from my brother. That was before he had his own family to support and could still be magnanimous with presents. It came with a woven seat and back, which wore out from hours of nursing the first four babies. We had it recaned, and it lasted for three more infants. But it has been out of use for the life span of the twins which must be admitted is eighteen years. I have made a few stabs at finding a place to repair it. 

 

The other day we went out with a couple who articulated their patterns when their kid misbehaves. One of them, I am not saying who, holds a grudge. The other, no hints as to identity, doesn't let resentment get in the way of the next interaction which it turns out is often better. 

 

John and I looked at each other. It sounded familiar. I was the grudge keeper for years, while he could forget and forgive. But lately the notion of holding on to a broken interaction seems as futile as lugging a broken chair across the country. I am quicker than I once was to leave them behind. There are more comfortable places to sit.