Nov 15
jessie.daigle's picture

Waiting

The floorboards are dust covered. I am long forgotten. The dust has made its way onto the curves of my wood, covering the elegant designs. My once plush seat now sags, a constant reminder of those who have previously used me. My old wooden handles are now splintered. The grooves in my armrests are crammed with dirt- years and years worth of dirt and filth. It has been years and years since I’ve been used. Since I’ve been out of this dank storage unit.

I know, eventually, you’ll come back to the storage unit, in search of newer and better things than me. You’ll slide me out of your way, my old rockers will screech across the floor, creating new scratches in the boards. I’ll creak with each rock, and you’ll cringe at the sound, but it’ll be music to me. It’ll remind me of the times that you used to enjoy the sound of my gentle rocking. How you used to fall asleep to the very noise that now troubles you. How I used to be the only chair you sat in as a child. How you used to treasure me, but now I spend my days in this mucid and drab place.

I know you’ll find what you were looking for, pluck it out of this mess, walk to the door, hesitate, and then you’ll turn around. You’ll take one last look at this clutter of trash. No, not trash. Memories. You’ll look at each object, each one reminding you of your childhood. You’ll see your old bike, the patched tires, the weak wheels, the rusted frame. You’ll relive all the crashes and collisions and topples and tumbles; you’ll remember the way you used to pedal up endless hills, just to ride down them again. All the time it took to get up the mountainous hill, just for a few seconds of pure terror and joy, but it was worth it, every time. The wind coaxing tears from your eyes, pelting your face, breezing in your ears.

A single tear will fall from your eye. You’ll force yourself to peel your eyes away from the bike. Then, instead, your eyes will latch onto the ratty blanket from high school. The same one you offered her at the bitter homecoming football game. The same one you used on your first date with her, a picnic of course, on top of the same hill you used to ride that bike up as a child. The same blanket that you swathed your first child in, while leaving the hospital with her. The same one that your child dragged around the house for the first five years of his life.

You’ll close your eyes then, as if it would barricade the tears in. You’ll swallow hard, telling yourself to clean this place out. You’ll convince yourself it’s all trash. You’ll feel better and open your eyes, which’ll immediately jump to a flag bearing the name of your college. Those four years of your life will come flooding back to you. The exams, the friends, the shenanigans, spring break, the football games, graduation, walking across the quad for the very last time.

And that’s when you’ll really lose it. The tears will flow, uncontrollably and candidly. You’ll collapse into me, sending a cloud of dust into the atmosphere around us. The tears will fall onto my rough wood, pooling up in the designs. And, even though you’re in pain, I’ll relish every moment you sit there, every sob that rattles through your body, every tear that lands on my dry and dusty wood. I’ll wish that we could meet again, under happier circumstances. I’ll wait for the day I see you again, or the day I meet your son. When I finally escape this prison of your memories. I’ll wait for that day.
But, for now, I sit here, waiting anxiously for those days.
 
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