ROBIN WRITES: The Crying Chair

By Editor | February 3, 2026 |

The stool sits in the corner of our kitchen, where it’s been for over 30 years. It is 70’s “shag carpeting” green. The paint is chipped here and there; black primer shows through from bumps and scrapes. Across the backrest, little scratches give evidence of hurried clutches and careless grabbing.
Fold-out stairs hide under the metal seat. The mats of black tread are worn thin by thousands of sneaker stomps and bare-footed slaps.
We call it ‘The Crying Chair,’ and it has been the scene of many teary-eyed, drama-filled moments.
Summertime was the crying chair’s busiest season. When the kids were little, the Crying Chair was the place skinned knees were doctored. Where bee stings were inspected and treated. Where splinters were coaxed free.
I’d pull the crying chair out a bit and unfold the stairs; my patient scrambled up onto the seat. Sweaty legs squealed across the metal as she plopped into position. Then her face rose to meet mine.
“Where do you hurt?” I’d always ask. Sometimes I knew, but sometimes the scrape or bump was too tiny to be seen immediately. I waited while her hands reached for a cut knee or a scraped elbow.
She held the injury as tentatively as if she were holding a fragile gift, and waited for my assessment of its worth.
In syllables that rose and fell like a teeter-totter, she reconstructed her entire morning, beginning with her every movement and ending with the consequences of a misstep or a shove. Fingers were pointed. Names were named. Objects were blamed.
“That stupid gravel road!” she’d say. Or “I hate bees!” Even, “My sweat made me slip.” But whatever the cause, the Crying Chair was the place to tell the tale.
I listened and tried not to smile at the more hysterical stories, surreptitiously scanning her face and arms and legs for any real emergencies.
By the time she finished her story, her eyes were drier. Her face had paled from its sun-soaked blush. Now it was time to do the doctoring.
She steeled herself for the soapy washcloth by grabbing the edges of the Crying Chair’s seat, hiking up bony shoulders, and lifting her bent legs up onto tippy-toes against the top step.
If she felt brave, she watched while I cleaned the wound. Her mouth made hissing noises through baby teeth with each dab. Sometimes she yelled at me to stop, but we both knew I wouldn’t until I was finished.
In moments, it was over and antibiotic cream was applied.
The Band-Aid was a badge of courage and proof that the pain was over. I let her open the packet and pull off the adhesive tabs. Once her “sore” was covered with the fleshy strip, it disappeared as if it had never been there at all.
She slid off the Crying Chair’s seat and fumbled for a foothold beneath the stairs that had helped her up. With no more than a wispy glance in my direction, she headed for the door and adventure.
The screen slammed, and she was gone.
The kitchen was empty— just the Crying Chair and I remained. I folded the stairs in place and pushed it back into the corner.
The children who sat on my Crying Chair are grown now and they all have children of their own. But that chair sits here, as it always will, ready for visits from grandchildren who will scramble atop it and marvel at the rickety, old stool that looks as old as Grandma.
When I see them there, I smile at the continuity of life and marvel at the warmth those memories bring.
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■ Robin is a freelance columnist who lives and writes in Quincy, Illinois. Contact her at [email protected].