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The blue recliner chair, worn and faded now,

Was my father's favorite place.

He'd read a paper or watch a game,

In this chair I still see his face.



Holiday time, we'd move his chair,

Making room for our Christmas tree.

My father would fuss and fume a bit,

Because it made the TV harder to see.



He seemed so stern and gruff to most,

But I knew he was as soft as a bear.

His disinterest in the tree was a lousy coverup,

Because I'd catch him moving bulbs from here to there.



Every year it was always the same,

We'd dread the moving of the chair.

Now, the holidays are just not the same,

Now, all is silent from the blue recliner chair.



Oh, how I wish I could hear him again,

Grumbling about our huge Christmas tree.

What I'd give for his 'bulb feedback',

Giving decorating tips just for me.



The tree just isn't the same these days,

I still decorate with love and care.

But I so long to hear his gentle voice,

His advice from the, now empty, blue recliner chair.