The man and the chair, stories from afar

The man and the chair

I’ll spare you the awful details, but let’s just say that sometimes the worst chapters push you toward the best ones.

We stumble, cry, get lost, then suddenly discover something beautiful we’d never have found otherwise. That was me.

The town itself had its charms. Vineyards stretched out in every direction, and I made those paths my own. Walking, jogging, just being out there with the rows of vines and the big skies became my routine.

The people were kind in their quiet way, and every now and then I’d hop in the car and explore nearby villages.

Portugal is full of surprises, and that’s part of what kept me going.

During that year, I also spent a lot of time alone — the kind of alone where you start making little projects to keep yourself sane.

For me, it was watercolor. I began painting small tableaux of daily life in the town: People at the market, flowers vases in my house, and eventually, the story I’m about to share.

The Man and the Chair

Every morning, I’d head out early for my jog. It was less about exercise and more about survival,  moving my body, breathing fresh air, and trying to connect to where I was.

I always started with a warm-up walk. And every morning, without fail, I’d see a woman carrying a wooden chair out of her house. She’d set it neatly on the sidewalk, then disappear inside. She would return with her husband who looked older, stiff, his body leaning slightly to one side as she settled him in the chair. His expression never changed.

I’d pass, say “bom dia” with a smile, but they never responded. Not a nod, not a blink. Just the man slanted in his chair, and the woman who arranged it all. Her morning ritual.

This went on for weeks. Same scene, every day. Chair, husband, silence. Then one morning, I came down the hill and the chair wasn’t there. The sidewalk was empty. Immediately I slowed down. Something felt off.

As I approached, I saw the woman standing in her doorway. She stepped out, raised her hand in a stop motion, and looked straight at me.

I froze.

She didn’t say hello. She didn’t smile. She just said, “Can you come inside my house?” I must have smiled, though it was more of a nervous, automatic smile. Because in my head, alarms were going off.

Where was the chair? Where was the husband? Had something terrible happened? Was I about to walk into some scene I’d rather not see?

She repeated herself, more urgent now: “Please come inside, come inside.”

And what did I do? I stood there like a statue. My legs refused to move. She gestured again and started walking toward her door, waiting for me to follow.

Against all instincts, I did. Slowly. Step by step, like I was in a dream. Once inside, before I could take in the room, she put her hands on my arms and turned me toward the wall.

There was a huge grandfather clock. I blinked. What was this? Why the urgency? Where was her husband?

The house was dim, and I couldn’t make sense of why I was staring at this enormous clock. Then she appeared beside me and said, almost matter-of-factly: “Can you wind the clock for me? It’s too tall and I can’t reach it.” 

I laughed, not a polite giggle but the kind of laugh that escapes when fear leaves your body all at once.

I wound the clock, looked around, and there he was: her husband, on the sofa, slanted to one side, expression as blank as ever. Alive.

She thanked me, I thanked her, and we walked back outside together.

She brought out the chair, settled her husband into position, and the daily ritual resumed.

This time, I waved. She didn’t wave back, but I kept walking down the hill, laughing the whole way, feeling lighter than I’d felt in weeks.

That’s the story of the man and the chair. It reminded me that life isn’t always what you fear in the moment.

And sometimes, those odd little encounters become the stories you carry with you, the ones that turn into paintings, or memories, or laughter you didn’t know you needed.

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