WHAT GOES AROUND

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 that’s how he built things. Or maybe the baby was huge. There are no photos.

His son slept in it. Then his son’s 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. It’s still faintly there.

Every time a new baby came, someone would say, “Time to get the old cradle out,” and haul it from the shed or the attic or the hallway cupboard.

They’d tighten the joints. Check the screws. Tuck in a new blanket. Then wait for the baby to fall asleep.

It didn’t have a story, really. Nobody had taken it to war. It wasn’t in a gunfight. It hadn’t washed ashore somewhere amazing.

It was just really good at rocking babies.

In circles.

Make some memories,
The Ironclad Co.