There appears to be no point as to why our leather chair rocks– the chair our cat favors, the chair that reclines with a jolt and flips our feet the height of our head when we grab the inside lever.
Because no one ever just sits in the chair to rock.
Which doesn’t mean, I realized, that the chair isn’t good for, say, taking on a run.
I looked up from the stove yesterday to see our leather chair half way to its grave. On it our son was running rapidly like a rat on a wheel. His arms swung in an unbalanced rhythm. And the front and back of the chair pulsed with panic at each raise and thump, raise and thump.
My son smiled. “I have to practice my jogging,” he said.
I took it all in–the galloping chair, the kid performing high knees, the vision of the two combined…and–for a pathetic moment–I finally knew the function for the rocker.