Grampa rolled his rocking chair back and forth, back and forth.
He rubbed the twin barrels of his shotgun with the polishing rag, up and down, up and down.
He spit a wad of chewing tobacco into a jar, stood, and said,
“Missy, don’t you never–ever–kiss no boys.”
The rocking chair moved back and forth, back and forth.
It was a family heirloom, a decrepit icon of past generations that had been hidden in the attic, alone and lonely, for years.
But that night, as I laid sleeping, I heard it rocking back and forth, back and forth.