Mom's rocking chair

I tiptoe to the glass room with the phone in my hands
and crawl into the rocker set near the window.
Its dark and I listen to words from a distance
and wonder if relationship is worth such precision.
I trace the wood on the arms of my momma’s old rocker
the scratches left by my fingernails long ago.
As I sway in the rocker it takes me back to her songs
that she’d sing; back to the rhythm of the methodical creak.
Now a woman I sit but as a baby I lay in this rocker that held me,
that lessened my pain. Same fabric holds tears that it held long ago
and if mommas where wooden then here is where I’d go.
If I found her I’d ask her to sing to me please
because life and its brokenness has not offered her ease.