The Rocker
Something was missing! Strewn across the floor, pieces of oak formed a wooden jigsaw puzzle. The smell of varnish and sawdust penetrated the mildew of the basement. There should have been two curved rockers. I tried to imagine a rocking chair with just one.
A few days earlier my father chided me about my organizational skills. I protested that antique refinishing was an art and that too much order hurt creativity. There was a certain mirth in his smile as he left. He would have enjoyed my search for the rocker. It probably would have reappeared after a few frustrating days. Unfortunately, he died that night.
Weeks later, the nearly completed rocking chair listed sadly to its right. Covered with black soot, like a miner, I rummaged through an ancient coal room. The basement was ransacked. Every drawer in his workroom hung open. Before we sold his car, I pulled out every seat for one last look. Over the years many spots were rechecked a number of times to no avail.
During semester breaks you’d find me peering into a drafty attic on a wobbly ladder uncovering only squirrel droppings and curtains of cobwebs. Summer meant scouring the rafters in the garage. Before a decade passed, a charitable uncle finished the rocker with a shinny new piece of oak. I reluctantly agreed to this temporary measure.
By that time marriage and a distant job reduced the number of trips home. Yet, with each visit I eagerly renewed my search. What was he thinking when he hid it? Had I met his expectations? Was he enjoying my quest? I treasured his companionship.
Recently, my teenage son was helping his grandma and I remove some water damaged ceiling tile. As we peeled one back, a long curved projectile crashed to the basement floor only about a foot from where it he appropriated it.
I silently stared at it for a few moments. Moisture and mildew had eroded the edges and tinted it green. I held one of the last things he touched . . . his last known secret. They kept him alive for nearly two decades. I will miss him!
The End
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