This was my spacecraft,
This was my pirate ship,
This was the warm embrace when Mom held me in her lap.

My hand caressed the backrest of the antique rattan rocking chair. Some of its strands threatened to protrude from its weave. My grandma gave this very comfy chair—perhaps older than me—to her only daughter as a housewarming gift. Nothing compared to the warmth of being embraced by my heavenly angel when I was a little kid, sleeping in her arms.

The chair rocked back and forth, giving you this calm and content feeling. Like the rage of the worlds didn’t matter. Maybe that’s what it was like to be in a mother's womb or cradled in a mother’s gentle arms. So warm and safe.

My hand pressed the armrest to steady the chair position so it wouldn’t move when I sat on it. My eyes gave a greedy stare at this small living room space. I tried to remember when Mom was still a part of this house. The last visitors had already left, leaving the house emptier than it already was. The crowd of families and friends couldn’t fill the void...