His ex-wife kept bugging him to get rid of the old chair in the corner. She couldn’t understand or was unwilling to understand what that chair represented to him. It was ‘his’ chair. A place where he could sit and remember those men he served with during the war. She’d never understand the worn spots where his crocked elbow rubbed raw as he nursed glass after glass of Vat 69. Those spots he created thinking of his red headed savior who kept him safe through the war. Here in the chair he could feel like he was home once more.