The year they had the funeral in the house they set out an extra stool by the door, as you do. Nobody sat on it. When it was over it went back into the woodshed.
The following year, on the same date, he opened the door in the morning and the stool was by the door.
He carried it back. Two days later it was by the door again.
In the third year he was up early and it was already there. He split it with an axe and burned it in the stove.
In the fourth year, on that date, there was a new stool by the door. Four legs, mortise and tenon, not a nail in it.
He knew the timber. The old toon tree in the yard, the same grain. He went and looked at the tree. It was whole, the bark unbroken.
He measured the seat height: forty-three centimetres.
He sat on it. His knees came to a right angle and his feet lay flat on the ground. He had measured his own lower leg once, with shoes: forty-three.
There is a worn dip in the middle of the seat, the wood there paler than the rest. He put his hand on it and compared.
It is where he sits.