Dialoge Between the Boy and the Rocking Chair

This dusty rocking chair hidden for, at least, two decades in a corner of the dark attic, where a white-haired man used to sit in and rock himself to sleep, cuddled in a wool blanket: can tell many how and when it was made by that cigar-smoking grandfather of yours... It just lay there picking up much space, silently abandoned and not needed by anyone to lay back and gaze; so ignored were the mastery and love that took in making it; when I heard him stump on the long stairs, sunshine filtered through, the unwashed window, to engage his wit.... Curious boy, staring at me with awe, you should know that I originated from a timber forest too dense; and the hard and thick wood was cut down by a sharp saw: bought in the quite borough of Queens, to be worked on by very rough hands: with the intention of creating charm and elegance... Take a soft rag and some furniture polish from the tiny closet, and bring me back to the previous life of my self-importance: my luster lasted only for fifty prosperous years, then suddenly I was put away to face darkness; and I longed for someone who could listen with interest, and keep me company to forget my wretchedness... Sympathetic boy, as I speak, write down this worth-telling story, in your brand-new composition book with an interesting essay: to let others know that I was a jewel that dazzled from all four corners; when Americans fall again on hard and unacceptable times, they can look it up to be comforted and be told how to cope with their woes, or even how to see their hardship and deprivation a momentary demise... Copyright 2009 by Andrew Crisci