The Rocking Chair

People think that all ghosts are bad, but they are wrong.

Growing up, I lived in an apartment next to an old woman named Miss Betty. She kept a rocking chair on the stoop and on warm evenings I would sit outside with her and play checkers. She smoked hand rolled cigarettes while we played and gossiped about the neighbors. Through her I learned that Deacon Jones boy was a pothead, and that prim, proper Sylvia Garland was really a harlot. Her words, not mine. I wasn't quite certain what it even meant. My parents never knew what we talked about, or they certainly wouldn't have allowed it.

I was devastated when she died. I sulked around the house for days, until my parents finally forced me outside to play. I guess they thought that the fresh air would serve as a healing tonic. Or maybe they were just tired of having me underfoot.

That's when I noticed the rocking chair moving ever so slightly. Back and forth. Back and forth.

I ran inside and got my checkerboard, ready to play again.