I’ve sat on this stool a lot this year. Sitting this low in the kitchen gives me a different perspective.

I’ve spent a lot of time on this stool crying this year too. When my cousin died, when my great-grandmother died, and when I found out my grandmother was in the hospital. Something about being low to the ground was better than sitting on the couch, staring at electronics. Plus, my dog can reach me a lot easier at the stool level.

Despite the fact the stool is constantly in the way (the boyfriend and I stub our toes and knock our shins on it often) and it’s not the best stool for reaching high into the cabinets (it teeter-totters very easily) the stool remains. It’s somewhat of a comfort, like having a blankey.

I like sitting on it on good days too, not just to cry. Sitting, staring at the beige-ness of the kitchen. It can be slighly surreal. Or just sitting and talking to the boyfriend as he cleans up dishes and such. It’s my kitchen island.

My mom bought this stool for me when I first moved to Kansas City. I needed something to sit my radio on in the bathroom. In my last apartment I used it to grab sweaters from the top of my closet.

My stool reminds me of the one at my grandmother’s house, I believe it was my uncle’s. It was a little red stool, slightly more stable than mine, and it had a little story about the red stool on top. I don’t remember exactly what it said — it may have alluded to kids using it to reach the sink to brush their teeth.

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Reminiscences by Courtney