The rocking chair has yellow paint on one of its struts, and one rocker looks distinctly chewed. It creaks something fierce. And if you pulled too hard it would come into pieces, the glue that kept it solid long since evaporated.
It might have been the climate that did it. The dry cold winters in Prince George or the hot summers in Invermere. It might have been the damp in Nanaimo, the forest chill in Terrace, or a season spent in a storage locker.
Or it was transit, being trucked here or there in the back of a station wagon, a Subaru, a Dodge, a Toyota. Down some stairs, and up an elevator. Stacked with boxes, with blankets. With clothes.
It might just have been years of use. Rocking a baby from her first day at home. The carelessness of a toddler. The roughness of a teenager. This cat, that cat. The dog that chewed it instead of a shoe. A woman who writes while she rocks.
The woman who can’t imagine her home without the rocking chair. It doesn’t suit any particular style and wasn’t built to last forever. But then, neither was she.