A glider chair sits in our house, mostly unused now. It’s just fabric and wood, but it holds midnight feedings, whispered promises, and the version of me who learned how to be a father through grief. Some objects are more than objects. They are witnesses.
On a sweltering July afternoon, I wandered the St. Louis Art Museum and found myself in front of a familiar painting. What happened next caught me off guard. I didn’t just see the art—I felt the soul of it. This is a story about stillness, presence, and the unexpected portal that opened inside me.
The tornado missed us by less than a block. The damage, the chaos, the grief—it was all just down the street. We were spared. And somehow, that made it harder to hold. I spent the next morning walking the neighborhood, trying to make sense of what it means to survive.