The Rockin’ Chair

     On a porch, beneath the shade,

     the good ol’ days when we just played;

     Grampa in the rockin’ chair,

     pouring ice-cold lemonade.

     Autumn leaves, the church bells rang;

     our Sunday’s best, off note—we sang.

     Standing guard, the rockin’ chair,

     waiting for our sinless gang.

     The icy wind, the woods—it tames.

     Inside, the warmth of winter games

     One snow-covered rockin’ chair

     conceals the carvings of our names.

     The robin’s chirp, a daffodil.

     On a butterfly’s wings,

     our screams would spill.

     Daddy in the rockin’ chair,

     sawing wood, his body still.

     The calendars change,

     along with our sizes.

     A blue ragtop, with flipped-up visors.

     The creak of an empty rockin’ chair

     expects no more surprises.

     Another hot sun, a lazy noon nap.

     A mosquito’s bite,

     too late with the slap.

     In that faded rockin’ chair,

     I dream with my son in my lap.

Evan McCarthy, Author (10 years later)