Winter Porch
One Picture/One Paragraph
The home where I grew up didn’t really have a front porch, but we had a big patio off the side of the ranch-style house. The patio had a table or two, rocking chairs and lawn chairs and an old metal glider—plenty of places to sit and visit. There was almost always a gentle cross breeze as our home was situated midway between the Potomac River and Monroe Bay. In my mother’s later years, she spent most all day out on the patio, as much as the weather would allow. She could count on a steady stream of visitors as people taking their daily walks would stop for a little chat, a cold glass of water or occasionally a trip to the bathroom. The patio was where I had my first kiss. It was where my sister got married and my son had his high school graduation party. It was simply a wrap-around porch unwound and spread out. Nowadays, when I see a front porch, especially one that is clearly used, I almost always take a photograph. Memory connects us to loss and longing.