The rocking chair creaked on the porch.
Slowly, year after year, time was rocked away by an old lady on a battered peeling patio as the world rushed by and she watched it do so. Every summer, the hot wind blew devils of red dust around the chair, like loyal dogs, waiting at her feet. Each year, autumn fell, and she collected and caressed the dark leaves that drifted cautiously into her lap. When Thanksgiving appeared, a young man came to coax her indoors. Each year, she held out for three days, until he painstakingly moved her and the chair inside in time for lunch and hibernation. Throughout the stark winter, a shadow moved back and forth at the dark front window, framed by worn, yellowing lace curtains, as keen eyes took in shrieking children in towering powdery snowdrifts. Then the snows would melt, and the flowers reared their heads high at the sun, and the man would return in time for Lent to bring her out onto the porch again.
And so she lived. Her life was to observe the lives of others – she watched children grow up, people come and go, cars become smaller and faster, all as the town grew bigger. Behind her, the old clapboard house looked strange behind the rows of concrete bungalows, but before her lay the old town. The streets lay brown as the earth; the dust blew in swirls. The old houses were repainted over and over, each time bringing to life the memories of days gone by. This was a world inside her time bubble.
One year, a bright board declared the house across the road "For Sale". Soon, it became "Sold", and the sign was removed again. For some time, life remained the same. Children ran down the street in the afternoon, clutching their bags, screaming as they went. Neighbours, old and new, congregated in the streets. The old woman rocked.
That summer, a happy couple arrived. Reflecting sadly, the woman remembered her days in the sun, as they unpacked the little car and threw the bags through the windows into the house.
She was sad that night.
The next day, the rains came. The dusty track became a muddy stream, dented by the plopping of raindrops. She rocked slowly onwards.
The woman appeared up on the balcony. She was dressed in a gown, her hair tousled. Leaning on the railings, she stared out above the roofs of the town. For once, the old woman looked upwards, watching the pondering figure as she swayed against the railings. The two women, separated by a sea of age and darkness, rocked together, lost in thought.
Behind her, the man appeared silently. He put his arms around her, but angrily, she thrust him aside. Several passionate minutes later, she stormed into the house, followed closely by the stunned young man.
After a while, she emerged onto the street. Through the pouring rain, she was perceptible only in a haze, but her silhouette was distinct as she climbed into the car and drove quickly and quietly away.
On the balcony, a man was crying.
That Thanksgiving, there was no resistance. The woman moved indoors quickly and quietly.
That winter, no shapes moved behind faded lace curtains.
That summer, the porch lay empty.