To My Front Porch

You cover the whole front of the house, and from the end of April to the first real bite of cold in September, you are the most popular room. I go out in the mornings, coffee, computer and both the dogs. When I was a teenager, I was horrified at my parents sitting in the backyard in their robes. I had no idea the pleasure in this. I have to remember to tell them I’m sorry about that. I realize now, though, they could not explain it to me.

Keith works from home and once he has a grasp on the day ahead, he sets up his office on the porch table. He keeps on eye on Chuck across the street. Chuck was laid off years ago and forced into retirement. He’s made peace with it now and takes care of the house. He pulls out the extension ladder and gets up on the roof. It may be raining. He’s indifferent. Keith listens, tries to work.

Later, in the afternoon, after my run, I bring a large cup of ice water out, go from sitting to lying down on the wicker sofa. I think no one can see and I’m shocked when Wendy, walking her dog, waves. I close my eyes, not napping, but certainly not awake.

Napping on the porch

Dinner. Whit joins us. We haven’t seen him all day. He carries out his plate. He won’t admit to liking summer, but dinner on the porch tastes better. I wonder what, if anything, he will apologize for when he’s older, when he understands finally what we simply can’t explain.

Like why we want him to sit with us, the way we love coffee. I can’t explain why I love the sound of crickets and the smell of the fresh cut grass. Why the end of the day feels so good and why music doesn’t need to be so loud anymore. We can’t explain why or how we have stayed married 20 years, except to say we have. Keith gets up to get something from the kitchen and before he goes inside, he turns to me, “Do you need anything?”

Which, I suppose, explains it.