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The Rocking Chair

© Virginia Marin

Folklore Table of Contents

The destiny of an individual from the cradle to the grave is sometimes refered to as--The Web of Life. It is an allusion to the three Fates who, according to Greek mythology, spin the thread of life, the pattern being the events which are to occur...

The Rocking Chair
by dubh sidhe

I can't sleep. I'd like to, but my head aches and I have a strange pain in my left arm. That is not what is keeping me awake, however. It is fear. The fear of existing. The fear of the Spinner who crouches in the corner. The fear of knowing that I'm living a life of dying. My rocking chair is my only safety. Safety from the Spinner. My rocker cradles me with warmth and security. With each tick of the clock, the chair squeeks, squeeks and the minutes shrink in proportion to time in the outside world.

My safety and sanctuary are in my chair. Outside, there is nothing for me. The world is busy weaving dreams. Inside, dreams no longer exist. My dreams have raveled into short threads. Past memories are no longer heard, seen or felt. Where have they gone? I reach into a nebulous encroaching fog longing to touch a remnant of the past, but the mist is cold and gray and empty.

As I rock, I ask the Spinner how many breaths have filled this house since it first became. Her ghostly voice speaks from an empty hood: First there were four exhaling and inhaling in time. Then there were three exhaling, inhaling. Next, two exhaling, inhaling. And now only one remains exhaling, inhaling. One from the beginning and lingers still, exhaling, inhaling. Waiting. Longing to stop.

Once there were no yesterdays--only todays and tomorrows. Now, there are only yesterdays. Yesterday's memories are buried in a shroud of gray under a dust covered rainbow of faded laughter, love and dreams. Still the one from the beginning lingers. Exhaling. Inhaling. Waiting.

Outside the faded flowers bow their heads. The red birds and blue birds fly away. A lonely white dove desends and perches silently on a baren tree branch. Inside is only the squeek, squeek, squeek of an old wooden rocking chair. All are gone except the one exhaling. Inhaling. In the shadows, the Spinner watches and waits--my thread to cut.

The sanctuary, once warm, is nearly lifeless and cold. Still, the shadow watches and waits. The one from the beginning exhales and a single thread falls to the floor...©