Grandpa’s big chair sits right by the window, soft and squishy with patches on the arms.
Every afternoon, he settles into it with a warm blanket and a cup of tea that smells like cinnamon.
Sometimes, I climb up beside him, even though the chair swallows me like a big bear hug.
He tells me stories about when he was little—like the time he raced a goat and won!
I laugh so hard I almost fall into the cushions, but Grandpa just smiles and keeps talking.
The chair creaks when he rocks it, like it knows all his secrets and dreams.
When I sit there alone, I feel safe, like Grandpa’s hugs are still wrapped around me.
His big chair isn’t just furniture—it’s a magical place filled with love and stories.