Tattered and Torn

It was an old rocking chair now. Soft, baby blue, with three rows of little blue buttons down the middle of the back. The arms were now covered in stains from the food and drink of almost twelve years, making them appear almost black. The old wooden handle was still perfectly intact, as were the rungs on the bottom, making this the oldest and most sentimental thing we were giving away. I watched from the backseat of the truck as the men at Goodwill pulled the old rocking chair carefully out of the bed and set it with all the other valuables people had given away. . .

"Oh, Jim! It's wonderful," Stacey cried, her stomach swollen with a child of almost nine moonths. Me. My dad stood by her, looking as young as as thin as he ever was. Both of them were watching from the threshold of their apartment as Jim, Stacey's step-father unloaded a beautiful blue rocking chair from his truck. It was his gift to the young couple, who were not only short on furniture but had a baby on the way. A space was made right by the door for the huge, blue rocking chair. It contrasted violently with all the colors in the room, but seemed so benign, so peaceful, as though it's purpose in the room was not to contrast, but to calm instead. My mother sat down with effort, the soft padding encasing her (and me) protectively. My father, Carl, and Jim stood a little ways off, talking. The simple gift of a rocking chair had made their day. It was only two weeks later that I was born. I was taken to the little apartment where my parents lived and so many nights they rocked me to sleep in that huge, blue rocking chair. The number of family members that sat in that chair, the number of times I sat on my dad's lap in that chair while we watched t.v. . . it wasn't important to me then, where we sat or what we did. But as I watched the chair being unloaded and taken away forever I realized that it did matter. That chair had withstood so many years. . . it was dirty, it was tattered, but above all. . . it was fixable. It held so many memories that I wished I could tell the men at Goodwill that we had changed our minds and we were keeping it. But, just like in life, there isn't always room for everything. So, the chair stayed behind as I kept moving forward. All I could hope was that it would mean as much to someone else as it had to me. . .