That path that looks so inviting leading into the center of that tree is no path. It is a rocking chair repurposed as path. Now what became of the rocking chair? Where did all those ends of zucchini cut-off end up? Where are all the words crossed out during the last 5 decades?
I remember the chairs of my dear grandparents. All sorts, in all rooms, all set in various angles, as if we would be happily laughing and talking any time soon. Cushions were torn and faded, lopsided and damp the ones left out on the porch, her favorite place to sit and have her evening coffee. Content to watch us wander through her nig old house, uncaring about the state of housework or dishes in the sink. Indeed it felt as if we were the only thing that mattered, there in the worthington town peopled by elders and their chickens and blueberry bushes and their dreams which centered on the future, having survived the past, the awfulness of wars, the indignity of poverty, and the hope their children brought back home. Chairs in front of fireplaces, by the small tables holding spoons for tea, under a piano, broken by the door ready to be mended, and never mended. I'll have to dig around and find some pictures to show you what I mean, the warmth of the chairs in the homes of people we love.
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