I was sitting on that porch today, you know the one in old memories. The one with the battleship gray pine boards and exposed, bent ten penny nails? It’s rusting screen with patches meant to keep moths and mosquitos from entering to swarm around that sputtering 60-watt light bulb attached to the side of the door with a hook.
That porch with the white metal bench swing, its flower print cushions covered in plastic and damp from the humidity. The one which has that familiar squeak in the springs as it glides back and forth bumping against the wall if pushed too hard.
A warm trade wind was blowing, lifting, dropping and rising with a whistle through the breezeway as the sound of thunder and the scent of rain came in from the south saturating the air. Dragonflies flew by with such speed you’d think they truly did have someplace to go and were late. The ocean in the distance was angry, whitecaps as far as one could see and gulls were rising and diving above schools of fish swimming up the coast.
I can’t tell you why I’ve come back or when it was that we use to sit on this stoop leading off the porch, staring at the stars brilliant in the summer night talking about our future and the plans we’d made. The wooden walkway which lay before us, weathered, cracked and gray leading to the road and beach beyond. How the dust would blow as cars twisted and rattled when driving over the hard-dry clay and the scent of gardenia from flowers next to the boarding house across the street filled the air.
This porch has remained with me, in my thoughts and heart for decades, and its intrigue has always been a memory that would settle my soul as I closed my eyes, took a deep breath, and listened for the wind whistling through the screen almost like the sound of a violin in a quirky way while I imagined I was still holding your hand. Lulling me into a place I once knew, will never forget, and forever love. In moments so very, very long ago.