My Rocking chair

is navy blue with a beveled seat that feels just right. The arms are flat with curved ends that draw my eyes to the decorative notches in the structure. When I study it closely, I notice how the light plays off the painted finish. It holds my afghan perfectly on the tall back rest.

I’m reminded of my grandparents dining room. There was a card table by the window with a huge word find sheet and several pencils. There were a pair of rocking chairs on the other side of the room with a small table and a lamp. They used to sit together at night reading together. My grandmother’s rocking always had a cushion tied to the seat that hid the slat design of the seat. I never liked the cushion, I preferred the simplistic beauty of the chair as it was designed like my grandfather did with his rocking chair. He balked so much when my grandmother tried to make them match. She stashed it in the closet. Eventually, it migrated to her chair when her cushion cover gave out.

I remember sitting in his rocking chair. I loved the distinct noise on the hardwood floor with every rock. I found comfort in the sound while my grandmother puttered. Sometimes, I used to rock fast hoping it would carry me off to some magical place. The arms were just right I could easily navigate through space. I was invincible.

Other times, the rocking chair would whisper sharing it’s memories before it became a rocker. It was a sturdy oak tree on the edge of a meadow. The sun tickled it’s branches each sunrise and sunset. Children climbed its sturdy branches. The rocking chair confided those moments gave him the most joy.

I asked him if it hurt becoming a rocking chair. He didn’t answer at first but I stubbornly persisted as children tend to do. He said, the most important thing was now. He had a new purpose and it gave him joy. He said my enjoyment in his safe arms was worth it all. He was happy going on adventures with me.

I think he enjoyed rocking me away from everything that made me sad. His gentle sway always filled me with pleasure like a secret lover’s touch. I think he loved me as much as I loved him. I wonder if he ever thinks of me.

Its been forty five years since I’ve sat in my grandfather’s rocking chair. A few years ago, Vic got me a rocking chair for my birthday. I sit in my rocking chair letting the swaying of each rock carry me back to those special times at my grandparents. Maybe someday my rocking chair will whisper to my granddaughter.

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