Grandpa spent many a summer evening out on the verandah, gently rocking to and fro on his oak framed rocker, with a can of beer in one hand and his rosewood pipe in the other. The period piece had seen better days, and no amount of polishing could conceal the circular black burn on each arm, or the chips on the curved gliders, and the scratch marks on the seat. Even the button back upholstery had a small rectangular tear, and a beer stain or two.
It was an eerie sight, to see the chair still rocking, and blue smoke curling out of the empty slippers.
He'd been up to his old tricks again, and had filled his slippers with tobacco smoke before hiding around the corner.

By albee, July 12, 2014.

The rocking chair was nothing special. It was that unattractive mid-brown coloured wood with knocks and scrapes from decades of abuse from children and grandchildren. But to my grandmother it was the bastion of all her favourite memories. It was in that creaking wood that she had nursed her newborns, read story books to her toddlers, and sat knitting while her growing children did their homework at the kitchen table. Just to sit and rock would transport her to these memories as effectively as a time machine and she would tell us vivid stories of the olden days. Without it her recollections would feel distant, almost as if they were really borrowed from someone else, or perhaps she had read them in a book.

By james, October 31, 2014.