This is where I had sweet conversations with my kids and husband, swinging slow, feet dangling. This is where I prayed with my sister-in-prayer and learned deep, soul-wrenching news from another, and another, and another.
This is where I read chapter after chapter of summer books, waved to the neighbors, watched the cat play billiards with acorns, kept an eye on lemonade stands, and observed the daily ritual of watering the plants and pruning the voracious mint.
I did yoga stretches behind the bushes, pulled a million weeds, and wondered why my hydrangea only produced one perfect bloom. I talked to God. I quieted my wandering, anxious thoughts with deep breaths and meditations on His creation.
I co-existed with the bees and smiled wide at a thousand fireflies.
I wrote a couple of songs while strumming my guitar on that swing. I sat in the theater of earth and sky and relished the shows.
Now the steady click of falling acorns bouncing across the concrete signals the closing of porch days. I will forget to go there. I'll neglect the flowers and they will wither or freeze. You'll find me in the kitchen or the car or at a meeting or under a blanket. But life will circle back around to the porch. Always does.
