The Chair

I didn't know it then, but that drive home was marked on our hearts and etched on our memories as the end of a chapter and the dawning of a whole new story. The day we brought the chair home.

The maple sat naked, waiting to soak in bristles of satin finished eggshell latex. Dipped in milky wonder.  Back and forth. And back again.  A swelling belly making strokes amateur and awkward.  Kicking of tiny toes tapping at a belly button that once existed, but for several months would play hide and seek behind clothes stretched across a life expanding.  Bursting forth.  Joyously.  Expectantly.  Anticipating. Her.

"One Hundred Promises to my Baby " dog-eared and sponged in, lay atop it's seat.  When pages met wood they sat alone in a dim lit buttercup room.  The one adjacent to mine. Beside the narrow window.  Orange and golden plush giraffe with beady eyes leaning on its spindles waited for nursery rhymes and whispered promises.  Shadows of cherry tree branches in bloom danced across its vintage seat.

When she came home she lay cushioned in the crook of my elbow, with soft temple, and baby smell so sweet you could drink her in.  We rocked.  And before we knew it the songs began.

Soon, the cherry tree shed its leaves, and snow balanced almost divinely on its branches.  Little legs became more limber.  Coos and cries left behind for blistered knee needing bandage.  A whisper goodbye for mommy to welcome in her mom, shortened bed time song.  Nighttime prayers and butterfly kisses taken over by an independence seeping in.  The rockers becoming more stagnate.  Hush little babies, more still.

Powder blue quilts draped on its spine now princess fleece.  Little girl dresses with bows and buttons welcome in a new era, a one other from the day we brought the chair home.

But, with every rock still comes the mystery of the clinging and the letting go.  Clinging.  Letting go.  Clinging.  Letting go.  Her backpack draped over knobbled rung  Offering her an escape beyond our walls.  Beyond the chair.  Beyond our rocking. Of memories and wonders of solid wood that offered a platform for grace, and beauty, and magic for this mother's heart.  Of her baby girl. 

And I hope she always, always remembers the rocking.