That boy would sit in that old beat up
rocking chair, the one by that there
cracked window, rocking back and forth for
hours. It just donít make a heap of sense
a youngster being hauled up inside
when he should be playing outdoors
with them other pain in the neck kids.
Sometimes Iíd ask him, I would say Jessie,
whatcha doing boy? He never answered
right away. It would take him a moment as
if he was searching for the answer, but real
soft like heíd reply Iím meditating.
What on earth would a ten year old, †
pig farmerís son, living in the middle of
nowhere and canít find it, know about
But thatís what he would answer every
time so I reckon it must be the
truth. I never pressed him for a better
answer. No sir, Iíd just let him be. Just let
him sit there rocking back and forth in that
beat up chair by that cracked window, that
old rocker that his Grandpaw died in the
Christmas before last.
© by A. Antoinette Grizzle.
Used with the authorís permission.