The small woman sat in her rocker. The chair itself was made of wood, and squeaked rhythmically with her motions. It was a pleasant squeak, one that reminded her children of days gone by, when they were the baby rocked to sleep on mother’s lap. The cushion was needlepoint, old and faded, but still comfortable, and still telling lovely stories of skillful hands intent on making beautiful things.

Beside the chair was a table, surface satiny from age and smooth with use. It held her Bible, her spectacles and two antique table lamps. Their warm yellow glow illuminated the planes of her face, as she rocked and waited, waited and rocked. The waiting was the hardest part, and the lines on her face showed that she had been waiting a very long time.

Under the table was a basket, and in that basket was her handi-work. There was bright red wool being knit into a sweater for her youngest child and a thinner, duller wool being knit into socks for her middle child. In her hands, for she had taken it out of the basket to work on it, was a lace cap being knit with fine white silk to add to the pile of small baby gifts that were waiting, as she was waiting.

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