That boy would sit in that old beat up

rocking chair, the one by that there

cracked window, rocking back and forth for

hours. It just don’t make a heap of sense

a youngster being hauled up inside

when he should be playing outdoors

with them other pain in the neck kids.

Sometimes I’d ask him, I would say Jessie,

whatcha doing boy? He never answered

right away. It would take him a moment as

if he was searching for the answer, but real

soft like he’d reply I’m meditating.

Meditating?

What on earth would a ten year old,  

pig farmer’s son, living in the middle of

nowhere and can’t find it, know about

meditation?

But that’s what he would answer every

time so I reckon it must be the

truth. I never pressed him for a better

answer. No sir, I’d just let him be. Just let

him sit there rocking back and forth in that

beat up chair by that cracked window, that

old rocker that his Grandpaw died in the

Christmas before last.

© by Arlene Antoinette.
Used with the author’s permission.