Rock a My Soul

The creak of the armless rocking chair sawing away at the linoleum entrances my seven-year old body. Silence pulses a breathless stream from my place in daddy's lap to the steady tick of the cuckoo clock, where Momzi pulls the chains with the cones at each end to set the time. Mama and Momzi talk in soothingly audible whispers while daddy keeps time with the rocker by drumming on my belly - "thrump, thrump, thrump". Bedtime comes gradually, so then much more acceptably as my semi-concious soul is floated into one of the crisp, cold back rooms and placed as if in Dorothy's poppy field, beneath sun-drenched linens and half a dozen heavy quilts. My exposed nose gathers in the smell of dusting powder from the bureau and the faint securing sounds of my protectors fade at last into nothing- no dreams, even pleasant ones would take away from the spirit cleansing peace of that nothingness. but a gracious awakening in the form and fragrance of bacon, grits, coffee, eggs, and broiled buttered toast brings me back to reality. To have the best time of my life I would have to return to that little house on Paris Mountain, those people, and this memory.