The Salesman's Guarantee

The salesman had been right when he said “Sir, this stool will last you a lifetime.” Utterly dependable, three legs as solid as the day he and Margaret had bought it to serve as Christmas seating all those years ago. Back in the days when the in-laws crowded out the dining room, leaving Thomas relegated to the fold-up table normally reserved for camping. He wondered how many times he’d stood on it to put the living room clock forwards, backwards, forwards, backwards. Even as the house had grown quieter over the years, today to the point of silence, and even as his frame had begun to fill with indulgent consolation in middle age, it would bear his weight without a murmur. Almost uniquely amongst the contents of the house, Margaret had raised no objection when he’d said he’d like to keep it, acceded that Thomas was too big for it now anyhow. It was a small mercy, and he was grateful, though it would have meant more if she’d been aware of bestowing it. As he stood and reflected, he realised with a dead shudder that he’d been sitting on it, three years later, in that early morning hour, when he first learned the news about Thomas. Yes, the stool had become a fixed certainty in an uncertain world. And now it rolled end over end, not a creak to be heard, before slowly rocking gently back and forth in apparent unity with the already limp body swinging above.