Fiction

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The maple wood rocker sits in the far corner of the living room. Though in desperate need of furbish, there was a time it never lacked shine, not from rag and polish, but from aged flesh rubbing against grained wood. Worn was the finish around the chair's curved arms where weighty elbows plopped and rested. Her body, bent and waining,succumbed,waited...

Sunlight pours through the paned window; dust dances in its translucence. It settles thick upon the room shading the white-laced curtains grey, and wedges into the corners of the paned windows. Some lines its sill and rests upon the frame of an old photo left of the window. The photo is of she, a younger more angled self, with upright chin and shoulders. Her arms and legs, long extending lines; grace in motion. I breathe in thickness, swallow void, wanting somehow to resurrect life buried beneath layers. "All are dust and return to dust," it reminds.

I look again at the grey flecks flitting in the sun's light. Onward, upward, they seem to travel. I smile knowing that she too travels, dancing onward, upward, in His light.

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