Porchy Reflections

I could always say, “It’s the house on the corner with the red porch.” I grew up hearing my mom say this to everyone she gave directions to and I picked it up like raw rice sticking to damp palms.

I loved having the only house on the block – the neighborhood! – with a distinctive red porch. On that porch I have sat with my whole family – mom, dad, and sis – and watched the world go by. I have played jacks on it with my girlfriends, kissed boys, eaten soup, written poetry. It chipped, we re-painted. It crumbled, we re-cemented. I held the hose to water the grass from it, peeked out from behind the living room blinds to watch dates walk up to it, allowed myself to be guided by the elbow on the way down the icy likes of it.

The porch belongs to someone else now and I don’t even know if it’s still red in real life, but it will always be to me.