The Scrying Chair

A piece of Flash Fiction, written to explore my soul.

I sat in the dark in the middle of the room.
That old chair is comfortable but shabby; its leather is well worn from a hundred thousand and more uses by my great grandfather, grand father, my dad and now me.
I sat facing the large mirror that takes up most of the wall opposite; the glow of a single candle silhouetted me in its depth.
I waited for a long while, and they came one by one, as they always did. They stood behind me and we smiled at each other in the mirror; I felt their hands on my shoulders and my head.

Three times each year now, on the anniversary of each one’s passing, we reach out in comfort and hope. 
One day I will join them and stand behind that chair.