Some Memories About a Porch

Heimat Review/May 2025/#9

We inched along the gravel drive approaching the home of my youth, the only one all six of my siblings and I shared. My husband had never seen this place before. He was not as shocked as I was by the fallen nature of the once well-cared-for grounds, farmhouse. 

It had been sky blue with black shutters. I described it once in a poem for my mother as clear blue eyes with dark black lashes. Now, its dismal, peeling grey walls and dangling shutters suggested different metaphors, but my mind went blank. At first, I purposely avoided looking at the front porch, the site of so many treasured family memories. When I finally forced my eyes porchward I saw drooping steps. I saw stuffed garbage bags. I saw old furniture. I saw cast-away junk.

When I was a child the porch’s use changed with the seasons.