Juxtapose those porches - their perfect boards, pressure treated and stain sealed, screwed not nailed, with room for a gas grill and a table and two chairs, a planter with herbs hooked over the railing and flanked by two more with flowers, and no view except for the parking lot, the alley, other buildings, other porches - with this one:
Rotting wood, warped and listing organically toward the front left corner, painted white in some places, red or brown in other places, and not painted at all anymore at the top of the five steps. There is room for everything - plants, bikes, toys, chairs, garden tools, shoes, a doormat, a blinky cat, and a tired dog. The porch is as wide as the house, and open to the air, and its old boards creak more than the swing that hangs above them.
We sit there, on that porch, on that swing - pushing back lightly with our toes, then gliding forward. My hands in my lap, your hands on my arm, and your head on my shoulder. The twilight birds sing home songs, the crickets chirp goodnight. The air is warm and still. This is where we look and listen, like they did before us, and talk. This is what we say:
Tomorrow’s so soon.
No comments:
Post a Comment