It rocks slightly to the left.
Like if you rocked a child for long enough, you'd go in a full circle.
The oak runners are worn just enough to make it drift that way. Maybe it remembers the wonky floorboards of the house it was first built for.
In 1910, a carpenter made the cradle for his newborn son. He built it with curved sides and thick joints. Not because he imagined it would last a hundred years. Just because thatβs how he built things. Or maybe the baby was huge. There are no photos.
His son slept in it. Then his sonβs children. Then their children. By the time baby number fifteen was placed in it, the wood had marks. Tooth dents on the rail. Scuffs from little shoes. Someone once wrote a name underneath, in pencil. Itβs still faintly there.
Every time a new baby came, someone would say, βTime to get the old cradle out,β and haul it from the shed or the attic or the hallway cupboard.
Theyβd tighten the joints. Check the screws. Tuck in a new blanket. Then wait for the baby to fall asleep.
It didnβt have a story, really. Nobody had taken it to war. It wasnβt in a gunfight. It hadnβt washed ashore somewhere amazing.
It was just really good at rocking babies.
In circles.
Make some memories,
The Ironclad Co.
Journal
