Rocking chair

I'm just a simple rocking chair made of wood.

I stood quietly in the corner until one January afternoon, when I held a young, nervous, first time mom and her new baby girl.

For years we stayed up late, soothing her to sleep. Sometimes the mother would sing lullabies. Sometimes she'd cry in frustration and exhaustion. And sometimes she would pray for the life beginning in front of her eyes.

Years passed, and I stood quietly again in the corner.

Until one February day, when we spent many nights rocking a sweet baby boy. Sometimes the mother would sing lullabies. Sometimes she'd cry in frustration and exhaustion. And sometimes she would pray for the life beginning in front of her eyes.

Years went by, and I moved into a bedroom with posters of pop stars on the wall, and the sound of teenage gossip bouncing off the walls. The baby we rocked so many years ago now etched an abstract design into my arm as she giggled and laughed and whispered into the phone.

I moved again, to a quiet corner in a quiet apartment, where the middle aged mother spent countless afternoons drinking sweet tea and listening to the stories of her growing children. First dates, first jobs, first heartbreaks. We listened as they learned and broke and grew.

And there I sat, in the corner of the room,  where the older mother lay peacefully. Her children, now grown, would sing lullabies. Sometimes they'd  cry in frustration and exhaustion. . And sometimes they would pray for the life ending in front of their eyes.

Months passed, and we moved once more, to a green nursery adorned with frogs. And the young daughter, now a mother herself, rocks her own baby to sleep and traces the etchings in my arm she put there so long ago. Sometimes she'd sing lullabies. Sometimes she'd cry in frustration and exhaustion. And sometimes she would pray for the life beginning in front of her eyes.

I'm just a simple rocking chair made of wood.