A Rocking Chair from Germany

He sat in the rocking chair, and it brought him comfort. A soda sat between his legs chilling his crotch and a half eaten bag of pretzels sat on the floor of the porch straddling two of the long slats of splintering wood running from one end to the other.

He sat in the rocking chair, and it brought him despair. It had come over on a ship, one of his relatives two centuries ago put it on the ship when he came to America. The leather upholstery clung to his skin, moist with sweat. When he got up the seat would cling to his bare skin and try to pull it back down, trying to keep it for itself as the upholstery was showing wear.

He sat in the rocking chair, and it brought him hate. The pretzel bag dragged along the porch being pushed by the wind, an invisible hand. He thought it might be the same invisible hand that would stretch his skin, stretching but not breaking, breaking but not falling, falling but not forgetting who his enemies are.

He sat in the rocking chair, and it brought him charm. The leather pulling his skin back and forth as he rocked back and forth. It hadn’t been reupholstered for fifty years, but the leather was smooth with only a few places visibly worn. Lasting so long, the wood refusing to die, refusing to rot, he thought he could be so strong.

He sat in the rocking chair, and it reminded him of when he was a child. He had taken a kitchen knife and had run it along one of the legs of the rocking chair. The scar was still there, a wound in which dirt and grime had started to collect. He and his sister had played on the rocking chair, she in pigtails and overalls too big for her, him in torn jeans and one of his dad’s undershirts, sweat stains hugging the chest and armpits. He had called her Bug and she had called him Puke. They had watched butterflies form in the weeks of summer. They had watched the wind blow over the top of the river making ripples run toward the shore. They had pretended they were at a beach. They pretended that the rocks they gathered were clams that they would open later to check for pearls. He had watched as the sedan sent her soaring over its roof and onto the hot asphalt behind it, and he remembered how she looked like a bird flying through the air.

Two of the rocking chair legs snapped and he tumbled to the ground with it, splinters driving into his legs and arms.

He sat in the rubble of the rocking chair and it reminded him that nothing lasts forever.