On the front porch, I sat down on dad’s old wicker chair. As my butt touched the brittle weave, I heard splintering sounds, the sound of tearing, fibers being pulled apart. The chair was weak, but it held me as I slowly relaxed into its contour. Dad was right, it wasn’t very comfortable, but that had never stopped him from sitting on it, outside. Maybe he liked looking at all the greens too. Who knew what he ever thought.
Because of my dad, I hated wicker too. I thought it looked cheap and temporary. Sure, it would look good on a veranda in New Orleans or on a patio in Cuba, but on a porch in Vancouver, it belonged right next to Iron Maiden flags in windows and cars on masonry blocks on front lawns. Cheap and temporary.

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