The Old Rocking Chair

The old woman’s bags are packed. Soon her grandson will be coming to drive her to a new home, a retirement center for old people like herself. They said there was no room for the old rocking chair, her companion of seventy years. And Emma gently rocks, her hands clasping her knitting bag, her mind unraveling the threads of a fading memory to the times she had ridden to the land of Make-believe with a grandchild cradled in her lap.

She remembered those times when Jimmy, her four-year old grandson, would clamber onto her lap and, cradling his head next to her ample breast, would prepare himself for an exciting journey. “Are you ready for takeoff?” she would ask slowly beginning to rock.
“Yes Granma,” said the boy, taking hold of Emma’s enveloping arms.
“Good, here goes then: Once upon a time …” And together the old woman and the boy would travel to the lands of fairies and witches and scary giants.
For seventy years, Emma and her rocking chair conveyed three generations of children on exotic travels to lands: where good always vanquished evil, where love prevailed, and where heroes and heroines lived happily ever after.

“Granma we’re here,” cries Jimmy, “Are you ready to leave?” Receiving no answer, Jimmy closes the front door and heads towards the kitchen. “Granma?” The old woman is slumped in the old rocking chair as if asleep.
Emma has no more stories to tell.