Rocking Chair by Ronald Zaremba “Oh my!” Abby looked up from planting flowers to see an old woman trip and fall against the large maple tree near the street in front of her house. Abby got up and ran over to her. “Are you all right? I told my Dad about this walkway.” “Dear child at my age you can trip over the smallest crack,” the old woman said. “Please come and sit on the porch and rest a while.” “I would like that very much.” Abby held her arm going up the steps and on to the porch. Even though it was ninety degrees the old woman felt ice cold to the touch. Her skin was smooth and supple without any age blemishes. Abby helped her to a rocking chair. “Would you like a glass of water?” “In a bit my dear, please sit with me.” Abby sat down beside the frail woman and held her cold hand rubbing it gently trying to warm it. “What’s your name child?” “Abby.” “That’s a very pretty name.” “I think I was named for my great grandmother.” The old woman nodded and rocked gently back and forth for a few minutes in silence as she looked around. “You know, I once had a porch like this and a rocking chair. My rocking chair was red. It was one of a kind, even though it looked like those sitting in front of a Cracker Barrel. It was hand made by my father.” “My Dad made these chairs. It took him almost
a year and I think he went through a forest worth of trees.” The old woman laughed. Then she moved her hands along the armrests and inspected the rest of the chair. “Yes, I can tell. Each piece was carefully cut, planed, sanded and fitted together by caring hands. I prized mine above my diamond engagement ring.”
A light breeze played with the wind chimes hanging from the corner of the porch. The old woman glanced up and delighted in the happy commotion. After a minutes distraction she leaned back in her chair and recalled a time filled with bitter-sweet memories. “At first I didn’t have a lot of time to sit in it, just stolen moments at the end of a busy day.” She looked down at the rocking chair and rubbed her fingers back and forth on the arm rests. “As my children grew up, they spent more time away from home, my rocking chair became more of an old friend. I would finish my household chores by early afternoon and would go out to the porch and sit in my chair embraced by its comforting arms. As the world turned colder and dear friends departed, I would turn to my rocker for warmth and safety. Oh Tom, my husband, was there every step of the way both good and bad. But that rocking chair was a place where I could search my inner most feelings without being judged or given a second thought of advice from a caring but not fully - 17 -
