Dad’s old easy chair sits empty in a corner of my mind now. A Colleen recovered recliner with a pink and yellow woven Mexican blanket laying softly on the back of the plump chair.

Waiting.

Found in the room where Bob laughs, winks and dreams as his 33 RPM LPs scratch along their circular highways, melting the day’s worries into dust in the Western sun. White specks floating and disappearing in front of red velvet curtains.

The Tiger Oak veneer player piano, which no one is strong enough to pedal any more, stands stately against the West wall, watching. Black boxes with yellowed torn titles squat above. Worn piano rolls top the lid, broken by discolored high school graduation photos.

Then, as the digital clock flips to 1:30 a Nebraska game sparks on. The quiet now broken by a slamming front door, then jumping, yelling, groaning and clapping. Jason’s barks drown out the announcers and calls of the referees. Bob’s best chum’s are Bob Devaney and Tom Osborne, win or lose.

Later, while the rest of us take to the streets, Lawrence Welk, the Lennon Sisters, accordions and old music fill the first floor. Notes dancing through the dining, living, hallway, pantry and kitchen. Mom relaxes on the loveseat, done with her cooking and dishes; her feet stretched and crossed.

As the dark finally sinks through the window, Mom draws the shade and makes her way upstairs. After a last call to Dad, she disappears into the hall while he watches the late show until his head, bobbing reluctantly drops.

And the easy chair gives a sigh, holding him in its hand. It smiles easily and beams along with the black and white broadcast bands. The day’s end programming begins to hum. The TV room is satisfied.