The Rocking Chair

This is an allusion to the three Fates who, according to Greek mythology, spin the thread of life into a tapestry, the pattern being the events which are to occur. Who were the Fates?

The Fates were goddesses who had counterparts in various parts of the world. The Greek poet Homer called them Spinners. Clotho was the Spinner of the thread and the birth goddess. Lachesis measured the length of the thread or the amount of time to live which she gave to each person at birth. Atropos was the Spinner responsible for cutting the thread, which brought life to its end. In Greek mythology, the Fates would first appear on the third night following a child's birth, at which time the life span and its events would be made known to the gods. French and Roman mythology also had their life spirits, as did German and Norse mythology.

Why did some people suffer and others did not? Why did some die young and other die old? Why was their death at all? These questions, even from the ancients, demanded answers. The Fates provided answers to these deep questions on life and death. These same questions are still being asked today.

The following story, based on Homer's Fates, is fictional. (Note: The "I" speaking does not refer to me, the author, nor does the mythological aspect of the story reflect my belief on death, dying, and the hereafter. The "I" speaking is the grandma).

I can't sleep. I'd like to sleep, 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 death. Or is my fear from the fact of my existing? Then, there is the fear of the ever present Spinner who crouches in the corner watching my every move. The fear of knowing that I am living a life of dying. My rocking chair is my only safety. A false safety from the eyes and long, boney fingers of the Spinner. My chair cradles me in its arms. With each tick of the clock, the chair squeeks, squeeks, as the minutes shrink in proportion to time in the real world.

My safety and sanctuary are in my chair - this is the only time I know. Outside, there is nothing for me. The world is busy weaving dreams. Inside, dreams no longer exist. My dreams have raveled into short threads which are scattered across the floor like cobwebs from some misty past. Memories are no longer heard, seen or felt. Where have they gone? I reach into a nebulous amoebic fog longing to touch a remnant of the past, but the ever changing mist is cold, and gray, and empty.

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