Evening Porchlight
Every evening, just as the sun dips below the treeline, I flip on the porch light.
It's a ritual now—has been for thirty years. My mother did the same thing when I was young,
and I remember how that warm glow meant home, safety, welcome. Now my own grandchildren
know to look for it when they visit. "Grandma's light is on," they say, racing up the
walkway. In summer it draws moths and June bugs, their gentle tapping a lullaby.
In winter, it illuminates falling snow like a small constellation. That light says:
someone here is waiting, someone here cares. Come on in.
Rufus Waits
Our old golden retriever, Rufus, has claimed the spot by the screen door as his throne.
Around four-thirty each day, he plants himself there—nose pressed to the mesh, tail
thumping softly against the doorframe—watching the driveway. He knows the sound of our
car before we turn the corner. By the time we pull in, he's spinning in circles,
his whole body wagging with joy. Sixteen years of this, and it never gets old.
Sometimes I wonder what the world looks like from his patient view: just the porch,
the yard, the mailbox, and the certainty that we'll always come home.
Summer Storm
Last July, a thunderstorm rolled in from the west—one of those magnificent Midwestern
squalls that turns afternoon to twilight in minutes. We'd been on the porch drinking
lemonade, and when the first fat drops hit, nobody moved. We just watched: the trees
bending, the rain sheeting across the lawn, lightning splitting the sky. My daughter
grabbed my hand. "This is my favorite place," she whispered. Me too, I thought.
The porch held us safe while the world washed clean. When the storm passed,
the air smelled like wet earth and possibility. We stayed until the fireflies came out.