I was immediately heart-faced for the little brick bungalow because of the porch. I imagined lazy days spent in the shade and lemonade from bygone years. The wooden swing was the icing, so to speak. But initially I didn’t linger there. I was too busy: moving, cleaning, painting. I worked full-time and then I got pregnant.
Fast forward a year. I was scheduled for a C-section and I could hardly move. I gained over 60 pounds and I couldn’t pull my nylons over my swollen feet (not to mention my swollen belly). All I could do was sit.
It was May, the weather perfect, and from the swing, my reflection quivered in the window adjacent. I caressed the wide curve that surrounded my child and imagined the beginning of a new chapter. One week later, I held him curled tightly against me because he hadn’t learned to stretch his limbs. Our silhouette was the same, but everything had changed. Together we swayed. The swing supported me through three children, countless lullabies, and all seven Harry Potter books, my children cuddled against me as I read to them.
Fast forward to 2016. My oldest will graduate from high school this June. He’ll open a new chapter in his life, leaving me to close the one I’ve shared with him. I write this post through tears, but it’s good. It’s how it should be.
And the porch swing? It still hangs. I comfort myself with the rhythm. But most days, I’m alone.