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I have very recntly retired and find I now have time to devot to my writing. As I was sitting this evening in an old rocking chair I rescued a few years back, I remembered a piece I wrote many years ago. I'd like to share it with you.
I'm old and growing weary now, as a chair will that has rocked a family down through the ages. My finish is chipped and scratched, but my memories are of happy times and laughter shared.
When I was new, my eager arms held a young mother and her precious son. We sang him lullabies at bedtime or with gentle concern, soothed him when he was ill. As he grew, it was on my sturdy arms he cut his first teeth. And, oh! that wonderful day I proudly stood firm while he clutched me tightly and took his first steps.
Other babies joined our family and I lent my creaking voice many times to the happy noise that filled our house. Still, all was not joy. So, in times of sorrow, I wrapped arms of comfort around a mother grieving a little one lost. In the silence of the night we cried together.
The babies grew to children and we shared the fun of playing games on rainy days or in the evenings. I was a horse, a train or mighty sailing ship, whatever their fancy called. We roamed the world together, brave adventurers in time. Still, if a knee was scrapped or a tummy upset, I'd hold them in my friendly arms and rock the pain away.
All too soon our play ended. The children grew beyond my call. The wondrous tales I told were now just noisy creaks. Sadly I watched them one by one leave our house for other homes and other chairs.
Every evening the mother and I still rocked, but lonely now with our children gone. Then the mother left me too. I sat alone in the gloom of an empty house, till at last I was brought out to the light. One of my children, now grown to a woman with babies of her own, needed me. I was taken to her home where I happliy rocked and sang, yet ready to stop and help some little guy get up on wobbly legs, or soothe him when he fell. More teeth were cut on my scarred old arms and once again I whipsered stories of make believe. But as time will have, they too grew deaf to my tales and forgot the comfort of my arms.
Now many years have passed and no more children come for me to rock, so the woman and I, both old and worn, sit alone with our memories waiting until God and the junkman shall claim their ownl.