Rocking Chair

only Mr. Szabo hadn't gone to Florida and died! Ifonly Aunt Ruby was standing beside me! I watch as the front doors ofthe funeral home open and men wearing black suits come out carrying a coffin flashing gold in the sunlight, followed by women and children and more men with fiddles. Then I hear the same music I have danced to many times. Gypsies are dancing in the street. I know what I have to do. I pull my beads and purple scarf from the back of the closet. In no time I am out in the street, twirling around faster than anyone else, my long black hair blowing in the wind. I fall down once, but I don't care. Hadn't Mr. Szabo told me I was the best Gypsy dancer he had ever seen? I keep dancing, faster and faster. When I get back to the apartment, Mama is standing out front. Even though she is smiling, tears are making paths through her makeup. "If you're planning on being a dancer," she says, "you'd better lay off the cigarettes." Rocking Chair Rock me back, O rocking chair, to Sunday comics on Grandpa's lap, lullabies hummed in Grandma's arms, drowsy, nuzzling afternoon naps. Rock me back, O rocking chair, in your arms of walnut worn to years before this sale of farm that leaves our family torn. —Jim Minick 63 ...