For Papa

I sort of wrote a poem the other night.  I'm not a writer though so it's mostly just my thoughts written down and I wonder if it makes sense to anyone but me.  But I want to remember my thoughts and the complete joy my children bring me even during the routine times in our days.  This poem is for my Papa.  That he may find peace in this new chapter in his life.

The Rocking Chair

3 1/2 nights a week I enter my children's room,
For that nighttime routine once again.
After diapers and PJ's and teeth brushing madness,
I collapse upon a blue cushioned oak rocking chair.
It's book reading time in the dim lit room.
It's just the three of us.
Mother, daughter and son.

Yet somehow he is there,
As I collapse into the arms,
Of the blue cushioned oak rocking chair,
That once belonged to him.
No longer needed by this man,
Who is living in a new house,
He calls not a home.

I finish reading the books.
Thinking of him still,
As I embrace my son from his crib.
I walk back to the old chair,
And rock him, stroking his cheek,
Attempting to calm this wild boy child into a deep slumber.
It never works.
The rocking that is.
I laugh inside once again,
At the boy singing and talking and giggling,
As he lies in my arms.
Doing anything but falling into a restful slumber.
I sigh and put him back down into his crib.
After 149 kisses and snuggles that is.

"My turn!" she says,
With such enthusiasm in her voice.
I walk to her and swaddle her into my arms,
Her faux fur blanket in hand,
And walk to the chair.
The blue cushioned oak rocking chair that is.
I think of him.
He is there.
Still.
Even if he is not.
I rock her until her eyes close,
And she is curled into a ball in my arms.
I lift up her arm and it falls like dead weight.
I know she is out for the night.
Even if the wild boy child shouts out in the darkness of night,
Which he always does before he falls asleep.
I place her gently in her crib.
She turns to her side and I place the blanket upon her.
The boy suddenly beams with delight shouting,
"Momma! Momma! Momma!"

All these nights are filled with complete joy and love.
I pat my son on the back,
And grab that crazy stuffed giraffe,
He threw on the floor yet again,
Swearing tomorrow night I will not do the same.
I always do though.
I say goodnight and fall alone,
Into the blue cushioned oak rocking chair,
Silently thanking the man,
Who once rocked here too.
For the memories we are making,
Rocking upon his old chair.