Visible Structures

There are a handful of shops I’m fond of. Most of the time I forget about them, but every so often, out of nowhere, I get the urge to drop by again after a long while. Some I stopped visiting when I moved and never went back to, yet I can’t forget them. They stay with me as good memories, surfacing now and then.

With shops like these, once I step out and start walking down the street, I feel a little lighter than before I arrived, refreshed somehow. Whether I buy something or leave without buying anything at all, they leave a pleasant mark on my days, on my trial and error.

A homewares shop, a restaurant, a clothing store—I have a favorite of each. I’ve bought all sorts of things at all sorts of shops that way, but when I think about it, most of them are no longer with me. With each move, with each change of heart, I’ve replaced things, let things go. What remains is the smaller part—and among it, there’s just one thing that has stayed with me all along.

It’s a wooden chair I’ve used for about eighteen years. I bought it at a homewares shop I like. It’s made of a simple arrangement of wood, with the screws left in plain view. A chair whose workings are right there on the surface.

Because I’ve used it so long, it creaks when I sit down. That sound is, honestly, a little bothersome. Even so, I’ve never thought of replacing it. All I can say is that I’m fond of it—and for eighteen years, I’ve gone on sitting in the same chair.

This chair, with its screws and even the joints in the wood left showing, I’ve kept close all this time. Things that hide nothing, that let their making be seen. Those seem to be the kind of thing I’ve always, without quite realizing it, chosen.

What I’ll keep from here on, and what I’ll let go of, I can’t predict, even for myself. But when I look at the things that have stayed with me, I feel I understand myself a little—just a little.