I don’t often form attachments to inanimate objects, but the magic rocking chair was different. She was special. For almost eleven years, she had loved us well. It was she and I against the world on countless delirious and sleepless nights. It was her with whom I first rehearsed each of my childrens’ own personal lullabies and whispersang them across baby eyelashes a thousand times or so. She was right there holding me up when I prayed all kinds of yearnings over each of my fearfully-made treasures. She rocked gregariously with me through first reading lessons, soaking the words into her wood, book after fantastical book. She was my silent sister when scraped and world-weary toddlers needed a break from battle. She even held me softly, sleepily as I nursed all of my children. I was thousands of times comforted by her curves.
That pilled and tired-cushioned magic rocking chair is where I became a mother.
Her tidy soprano squeaks and familiar alto creaks, and the percolating percussion of the ottoman as it hiccupped lazily exactly each third time I forward rocked; these sounds became the harmony to my new-mother-melodied heart. She was my soul sister, that magic rocking chair.