The Iron Rocker

I pressed the ball of my bare foot onto the cold, crosshatched iron of the sewing machine treadle. With slow, deliberate weight, I leaned forward... it yielded with a stiff, hollow creak, tilting downward until the heavy flywheel above gave half a silent turn. Heh... from beneath the slatted iron pedal, a loose wooden thread bobbin skittered half an inch across the floorboards. The mechanical vibration hummed right up through the soles of my feet. Hands locked tight against my bodice, I rocked the iron rocker once more, listening to its rusty sigh linger in the rainy afternoon gloom.