The Floral Chair
   The room was small and cramped. When I entered it, there was a faint scent of roses with an even fainter hint of citrus. It reminded me of the perfume my grandmother wore when she visited for the holidays. In the center of the room, there was a dusty pink chair with a floral print. A beige blanket was draped over the chair, and two floral pillows colored in different shades of tan. A stack of old books sat balanced atop them. One book that caught my eye was Little Red Riding Hood, one of my favorite books from my childhood. I remember lying in my bed as a toddler, all tucked in and comfy, and having my mother read it to me.
  Surrounding the chair were old sculptures and paintings that my father had collected over the years. He was always taking any chance he could get for new art to put in the house. They always ended up in the attic after a while, though, when he found a new one to go in its place. There was a bronze sculpture shaped like a ball of rubber bands on the edge of the coffee table. I remembered staring at it on the mantle in the living room, just wondering what the point of such a thing would be. I still don't understand it to this day.
  On the antique wooden coffee table, next to the sculpture, there was an old lamp that used to be in my bedroom, just collecting dust like everything else in this attic. The lamp shade was pink floral, but a drastically different shade to the chair. It had pink gems dangling from the rim of it when it was new, but now most of them have fallen off now. The white base of the lamp was cracked and wobbly. I would be astonished if that old lamp still worked, it looked like it would blow up if it was turned on ever again.
