The rocking chair just kept rocking. Back and forth on the linoleum floors, it rocked. The flickering of the television was the only thing that lit the room. His body molded to the 10-year-old chair; it hugged him and held him like only an old friend could. The doorbell chimed, filling the house of memories.
His once black hair faded into a salt and pepper before turning white, like snow. His rounded belly made the perfect pillow and his cotton shirts were the best tear catchers. His body exuded a warmth, like summer had just enveloped you in a blazing hug. He was my cool breeze during the Indian summers of my life.
Weekends always signified the same thing: family time. The week was an avalanche. Problems progressively got larger as the week rolled on, and the weekends were like a hot summer day, melting away all the problems. The shuffling of the cards caused little breezes on the wooden table. I looked at the colorful Uno deck, bent and broken from overuse, being shuffled by my Tio (Uncle) Gil. He was the king of the card game. His masterfully skilled hands held the deck that clung to his palms like a newborn to their mother’s breast; they knew no other master. I saw his skilled hands craft a bridge with the deck of cards.
We prepared for the game and his ego inflated because he knew the game ended with him winning. The game began, and each player was handed seven cards. My deck was daunting. I had all reds and I was to his right and his color was blue. I began to search for cards and his favorite phrase came out: “Pluck a duck, Mel, pluck a duck.” His eyes filled with joy and twinkled with excitement as his new conquest showed itself, winning this game.
His passion, winning, could be seen in any and every game he was a part of. The game continued as I piled on over 20 cards and drowned in a sea of green Uno cards. The end was not near, not for me at least. His grin grew as my deck increased. I stared at his hand, waiting for him to throw his last card. The card slammed onto the table a gleaming red skip, mocking my loss. His warm arm touched my shoulder. I looked up to his eyes and was met with sincerity, love and hope, and not the smug look of a winner. His woodsy smell flared my nose buds as he drew me closer to envelop me in a hug. His signature bead of sweat donned his face; it looked as if mist laid on his face for a nap. Even though I was obliterated by his skill in the Uno game, his love remained.
The thud of his heavy feet could be heard upstairs. The thuds began to travel around the whole top floor of the house. The cracking of the century-year-old stairs let his presence be known. His daughters and I sat on the couch watching "Boy Meets World." The sound waves of Topanga’s voice faded as I saw him standing at the foot of the worn stairs. I looked to him and saw that his soft belly was covered by his Transit Workers Union shirt, but it was Sunday. He began to his walk to the front door. His eldest daughter, Cynthia, asked, “Dad where are you going?”. He sucked his pearly whites and boomed his signature saying: “To hell, if I don’t pray.” His sarcasm was never welcome, but always around, like the mosquitoes in my yard during the summer.
I remember how the phone rang that day, filling the entire house with curiosity. My house phone never rang. My cousin Ashley was on the phone; she sounded like she had just run a marathon. She rambled incoherent nonsense, but only two words from that conversation could be understood: dad and hospital.
We ran to their home and walked into the house to see the signature flickering of the TV and the indent of his body on the rocking chair, only he didn’t fill it anymore. His frail, lifeless, pale body lay on the floor. His daughter Cynthia, a nurse, was hunched over his body, preforming CPR and mouth to mouth trying to bring him back. The deafening sirens got closer and closer until the EMT's were inside my aunt’s home, carrying out his lifeless body and a little part of our hearts too. The rocking chair continued to rock; I don’t know it if was mocking us or mourning with us.
I was walking though the sliding doors that spelled out Emergency Room when the smell of overused disinfectant burned my nose hairs. The ancient checkered flooring created a distraction for my shocked mind; “blue, red, white” was said in my head, over and over until I reached the white door that held my new fate. The wails of families could be heard in this hallway of unfulfilled dreams and newly-broken families. The stale-smelling hospital welcomed our worst fears as we were sent into a room with pale blue walls and a death certificate.
The days that followed held hollow meaning. His casket entered the ground and our lives changed. Hearts ached, missing his simple mosquito-like presence. His cool breeze personality no longer lifted up the weary and sang with the cheery. His face no longer graced the eyes of his family, our family. His feet no longer thudded down the century-old stairs where, just four years prior, my aunt walked down for their 25th anniversary to meet him. The Uno cards collected a thick layer of dust, never to be touched again.
The rocking chair has always rocked, even when he was not in it. It rocked him to the end of his time. The minute his heart stopped beating the chair stopped rocking. The chair itself died with him.
