When I was a little girl visiting Grandma and Grandpa,
I’d be told to sit in that big dark armchair with wooden arms.
I’d be in my ironed and starched cotton dress, blonde waves in barrettes.
The very durable frieze upholstery fabric was horrid on the backs of my sticking-out-straight legs,
the tender part between the short pastel dress and cuff socks in Mary-Janes.
Grandpa would try to smile and then look quite stern as I wiggled then in turn quickly sat stock still.
These cushions appear to be shiny soft fabric, but, constructed of metal, they are quite firm, even prickly--like Grandpa.