The Rocking Chair
Pitter-patter run their bare feet through the halls of childhood innocence,
oblivious to the emptiness they will leave behind when their giggles are gone,
washing motherhood out to sea — her purpose redefined like a thunder’s clap, growth charts and dirty linens a thing of the past.
Where sunlight once coarsed through windows with intent, now hang the worn and dusty curtains of youth,
in a house that knows every secret, every dare,
every wound and victory rooted there.
The floors they moan, the doors do stick, for every cradle she rocked and every graduation celebrated has come and gone;
the house is a placecard guarding memories.
So she sits there. Rocking. Waiting. Her life fades like contrails in the deep blue sky.
The house cries out to her, “triste verité (I am infinite),” destined to preserve your generations here;
But the generations have dispersed; the sound of chatter has been erased; cobwebs have consumed the corners but they never reveal how a mother stops being a mother.
The rocking chair does that.