The chair doesn’t look like much at first.
Its wood is splintered, the legs are scratched, and the seat is worn. It looks like the kind of chair that might have sat against the wall of a juke joint for 50 years, soaked in spilled moonshine, having seen better days.
If it could talk, the chair could tell countless stories of those who have collapsed into it on a Saturday night after an exhausting week working in the fields, or slaving in a hot kitchen. But not just a seat, the chair is a witness to suffering, and to survival…