Nana's Rocking Chair

"The sun is never going to set," said Henry, and he flopped on the porch step.

It was the longest day of summer. Mama had said so at breakfast. Henry wanted to watch the sun go down from the treehouse in the leaning oak, in a real chair, like a king. And the best chair was Nana's.

Nana's chair was a funny one. After anyone sat in it, it rocked itself, gently, all day long. Nobody found that strange. It was just Nana's chair.

Nana was asleep in the garden with a hat on her face. Henry did not ask. If he asked, she might say no. If he was quick, he could bring the chair back before she woke up.

He pushed the chair across the grass. Scrape, scrape. At the oak, it would not climb the ladder.

"Okay," said Henry. "Rope."

He tied the rope to the chair and climbed up. He pulled. The chair rose a little, then bumped the trunk and swung back. He pulled again. Bump. Swing.

Henry sat down on the floor, hot and cross. He could ask Mama. But then he would have to say he took the chair.

Then he saw it. The chair was rocking, back and forth, back and forth, because he had sat in it that morning.

"Back," said Henry. The chair swung away from the trunk. "Forth." It swung in.

He waited. When the chair rocked out, he pulled. When it rocked in, he rested. Pull, rest. Pull, rest. Up came the chair, creak by creak, and over the edge it came.

Henry sat in it. The chair rocked, and the whole sky had turned the colour of peaches.

"Take your time with my chair, dear," called Nana from below. She held up a plate. "I brought cookies."

Henry grinned. The sun touched the hills, and the chair rocked, slower and slower, until it was still.