The Porch

Shadow lines cut across the unvarnished wooden fence, colored various shades of brown and green by years of neglect. A bird chirped overhead. With faux menace, a carpenter bee buzzed near my face as the clanking sound of a tractor pulling a bush hog and squealing children broke through the sounds of nature. With just enough breeze to comfortably cool the skin, Spring had officially made itself at home.

It was my favorite time of the year. Too short. A breath between the frigid subzero temperatures of winter and sweltering heat of summer. It had been years since I last sat on this porch. While its sagging boards and chipped paint only hinted at its former glory, the sounds around me had not changed in 20 years and memories flooded back. Despite my misgivings surrounding the situation, I accepted I was home. Whether home accepted me would be a whole different matter.