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 don’t 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 I’d 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 he’d reply I’m meditating.
What on earth would a ten year old,
pig farmer’s son, living in the middle of
nowhere and can’t find it, know about
But that’s what he would answer every
time so I reckon it must be the
truth. I never pressed him for a better
answer. No sir, I’d 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 Arlene Antoinette.
Used with the author’s permission.