The Rocking Chair
a warm waterproof hip-length jacket usually with a hood, originally worn in polar regions, but now worn for any outdoor activity
(informal, derogatory) a socially inept person with a hobby considered by most people to be boring
People think that all ghosts are bad, but they are wrong.
Growing up, I lived in an apartment next to an old woman named Miss Betty. She kept a rocking chair on the stoop and on warm evenings I would sit outside with her and play checkers. She smoked hand rolled cigarettes while we played and gossiped about the neighbors. Through her I learned that Deacon Jones boy was a pothead, and that prim, proper Sylvia Garland was really a harlot. Her words, not mine. I wasn't quite certain what it even meant. My parents never knew what we talked about, or they certainly wouldn't have allowed it.
I was devastated when she died. I sulked around the house for days, until my parents finally forced me outside to play. I guess they thought that the fresh air would serve as a healing tonic. Or maybe they were just tired of having me underfoot.
That's when I noticed the rocking chair moving ever so slightly. Back and forth. Back and forth.
I ran inside and got my checkerboard, ready to play again.
No prequels yet. Why not write one?
No sequels yet. Why not write one?
Comments (2 so far!)
Gorgeous moment, capturing that relationship that can grow across generations and the child's imagination ready to supply where reality is falling short.
- #1521 Posted 1 year ago
Sweet. I guess the neighborhood gossips would be the first to come back to be nosy.
- #1525 Posted 1 year ago
- Published 1 year ago.
- Story viewed 11 times and rated 0 times.
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