She sat on the front porch he built with his own two hands, remembering the day he started it. She stopped peeling apples as her memories took her back to a happy time.
They were so young when they married and began building a life together on a good-sized piece of land her father gave them as a wedding gift. They lived in a tiny cabin while he built the house that became their home for sixty-eight years.
When everything was finished except the porch, he asked her how it should look. She picked up a stick and began drawing in the dirt, the perfect place for family gatherings on a Sunday afternoon, a place where troubles were worked out and the lessons of life taught. She kept on drawing as he smiled, knowing he needed more lumber.
It took him several weeks to complete the porch of all porches, and when it was complete, they stood back and looked at it for some time, wondering if they had gone too far.
She resumed peeling the apples for Sunday dinner, remembering when dozens of friends and relatives would gather. Some were inside to help prepare a feast, and many more would sit on the porch in the fifteen rocking chairs he had built over time. Others would perch themselves on the railing she insisted on so the little ones would be safe. She couldn't count the times that porch was like a babysitter for her.
She looked around the now silent porch, reliving in her mind the sounds and sights of family and friends. There were no more footsteps on the wooden floor or children's laughter as they played like children do. She saw the faces of loved ones now passed on, and for an instant, she saw him standing in front of her holding the stick she used long ago to draw her perfect porch. Then, with the tip of his hat, he was gone, leaving her once more to rock slowly and finish peeling apples.
Mike 2024
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