Fwattsa Kitty Chair, Kaz Commisso

My mom had a chair and a cat growing up. Everyone loved Fwattsa Kitty and

Fwattsa Kitty only loved that chair. Sometimes, he loved my mom, too. Out of every piece of

furniture in the home, that chair was reserved for him. Fwattsa Kitty bit anyone who sat in

his chair, a rule he came up with himself. When it was first purchased, it was meant for

everyone else but the cat, but over time he found a way to tell them it was his.

It was bought with my grandparent’s money, and so was Fwattsa, but in his seven

years of life that chair was only his. My mom has been yelled at by him since she was nine.

Every night, he scratched at her door so that he could sleep under the covers at the end of

her bed. Eventually, the box spring ripped open for him to burrow even further in. Every

morning, he wrapped his tail against the door until it was loud enough to wake my mom. This

meant she had to get up and feed him, which was probably why he only slept in her room.

Naps were reserved for the chair, or on top of the refrigerator, which took up most of his

free time.

Fwattsa Kitty spent the rest of the hours in his day being miserable. Most people

picture cats as capricious, for which Fwattsa was the blueprint. Fwattsa loved his chair, my

mom, and eating the tinsel off the Christmas tree, but he hated everything else more. He

died on my aunt’s third birthday, meaning he hated her the most. While it was a plausible

conclusion to come to, we later found out my grandmother put him down that day. She tells

us he was sick, but we all know she was sick of him. In all fairness, he wasn’t very nice. He

purred loud and hissed louder, especially when my mom wore a hat.

Fwattsa bit and he hissed, and everything had to go his way. Sometimes he was good,

in the way he purred when you pet him, and in the quiet he kept while he slept. There was

good and bad in him, they existed together. One didn’t erase the other. There was good in

the way he lived and there was bad in the way that he left, and all of it was him. All of it, no

matter what, was allowed to be loved.

Even in all his terror and torment, he was still loved. After she moved, my mom took

that chair to put in her room. It wasn’t in our living room, where it last belonged to Fwattsa

Kitty, but stored away where no one would sit in it. He’s loved now, his chair remaining

empty in the corner of my mom’s room. It’s toward the end of her bed, where Fwattsa

would have liked it. Instead of an orange cat, laundry sits atop the chair. I didn’t know a lot

as a child, but I knew of the Fwattsa Kitty Chair. I knew to leave it empty for a cat I never

met. Sometimes I would sleep in the chair instead of my bed, finding comfort in the fact that

my mom’s cat used to sleep in it as well. Even in his absence he was loved. We called the

chair after him, and we left it alone.

We leave a space where he used to sleep. We know he won’t crawl back into it, and

we know he won’t bite us if we do, but we still leave a space. The chair has a use, adorned

with clothes to be folded and socks left unpaired, but it will never be used for sitting again.

It’s left untouched for the cat that used to be there, the only proof we have left that he ever

sat there in the first place. We hold a space for the love that once existed. There’s a Fwattsa

Kitty Chair in the corner of my mom’s room that only holds laundry and love.

I sometimes wonder what will live in my house as my Fwattsa Kitty Chair. It

probably won’t be a piece of furniture, but one can only hope someday they will love so

much that they need to leave a space for it. I think that I’ve loved, and I know I will again,

but there is so much in my life that holds the love that was there. I have a scrapbook with

pages left empty, because they were never filled with what was intended to be glued to

them. I may find a use for it at another time in my life, but the spaces are left. It serves as a

place to put my love when I don’t know where else to set it down. I have a space in my

jewelry box where my favorite ring used to sit, just in case it comes back from wherever I

lost it years ago. I have a space in my wallet where I used to keep her picture, and I have a

space in my heart where the love used to live.

No one else is allowed to sit in it. That space is left as a reminder of what I had, a

tribute to what I’ve loved, vacant from what I’ve lost. I had a chair and no cat growing up,

but that chair still stays empty for one. I have a scrapbook and no pictures, but the pages

stay blank for them. I have an idea of a house in my mind, with a room on the second floor,

and a chair in its corner. The chair is empty except for my laundry, and the space I leave for

the love I’ve lost.

Maybe I’ll call it my Fwattsa Kitty Chair, maybe I’ll name it after a cat of my own.

Either way, its purpose will be the same. Even if it’s not a chair, or a book, or a box, it will

always be loved. Just as Fwattsa was loved, even in his hatred of all things. Especially when

my mom wore hats. He may not have known a lot as a cat, but he knew she didn’t look good

in hats. Despite his opinions on fashion, he was loved. And for that, he had a chair.

“This piece is about how we leave space for the things we love, even if they no longer occupy them.”