I am getting older, yet not
much older than he was
when he took me into his life
I find myself sitting
in Dad’s rocking chair
more and more

I need to feel the places
where each day he rested
his calloused palms,
and curled his fingers
on the armrests
over and over

I discovered more about him
long after he had died
he’d lived in an orphanage,
yet never talked about it
he made a home for me
replacing what he’d lost

I rock back and forth
sometimes slow,
sometimes fast
this old piece of wood
is one of the few things
I have left of his

I’m so grateful
to just sit here
in this same place
where he held me
so many times when
I was a little girl