It first creaked as she rocked in summer’s heat, waiting for the baby. Dad fixed it, but she wouldn’t sit in it until he made it squeak again.
She rocked through my breastfeeding and tantrums. I showed up once with teenage bravado and a cigarette. She stopped. I put the cigarette out and heard the rhythmic creak again.
I missed it when I left for college. Squeaks lulled me to sleep when I returned for Dad’s funeral.
It’s silent now. My wife asks if I’m okay.
The wind moves the rocker, and for a second I pretend that I am.