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.