Gale Huxley

Listen to Gale read her story

The chair rocked before settling. One long motion, sending lightened leather near its tipping point, followed by small, quick rocks—as if the recliner was comforting itself. 

Dad said it was the wind sent through the window. Cool evening air also brought my homework to life, spreading the Civil War all over green linoleum. 

His chair creaked as it settled. Mom teared up and said “Oh honey. It’s grandpa.” 

It’s true grandpa shared the same qualities of wear and noisiness. But mom and dad were both wrong. 

He’s not lounging in his recliner. Grandpa is in the attic with his ashes. He will never be freed from the edge of an Atlantic-facing cliff, left to dance with liverwort, to discover the mysteries of the deep.

I imbued my stuffed animals with life. Snot and blood droplets from paper cuts. A squirt of urine, just once. Each bear and rabbit received bodily fluids—the elements of corporality. One-eyed bears and patched rabbits shifted and swatted at my needy hands, but they weren’t haunted by my soul. 

All my grandpa had done was let back sweat and snuff sink into the porous leather until it acted on its own. His scotch vomit powered midnight arches toward moonlight. Gravy from his chin when he couldn’t chew on solids toward the end was the voice of morning calls for attention from the hinges. 

In moments of tenderness, I filled the gap he left. 

During stretches of bitterness, I sat in his indentation, trying to smother the recliner to insentience. The seat sunk in until my butt almost touched the floor. 

Once I forgave grandpa for living and leaving, I moved it to face mom’s wild garden, placing all the stuffing of a completed childhood on the cushion. 

Gale Huxley is from Atlanta, Georgia. She graduated from the Savannah College of Art and Design with a BFA in writing. You can find her work in publications such as Gravity of the Thing, The Plentitudes, Quail Bell Magazine, among others.
Find her on Instagram as gale.huxley and on Substack