The Front Porch

I remember our front porch. I bet it wasn't as big as I see it when I close my eyes. But I can remember running to the end where the wrought iron rail would stop me. It seems there must have been bright green indoor/outdoor carpet on the porch at one point. I think the foundation was cement. I'm not sure. There were two steps that led to the front door. We had a screen door. I know this for certain because we didn't have air conditioning most of the time we lived in that tiny house on the East side of town. I remember time spent on that porch, on those steps, with my brothers.

I grew up in that house. I was about three years old when we moved there. I think many of my memories of it aren't real though. They are simply imprinted from looking at photographs of myself and my family with the house in the background. A few instances I absolutely remember, though. I remember my first day of school. I walked home alone and I was so very lost. I remember crying and being terrified that I wouldn't make it to my house. I came upon it from the back yard. I didn't tell anyone what I'd done. I was afraid I would get in trouble.

I remember running away once. But I didn't know where to go. So I went in my room and went to sleep. It's something I've repeated throughout my life. If I don't know where to go. I go to sleep. Back then, they didn't even know I ran away. It still holds true today.

Back to the porch. I remember playing jacks on the porch. And hopscotch on the little sidewalk that led up to it. And my final memory of that house and of the porch was waiting for a man to take me skating. He didn't show. He just didn't show. He was replaced. It happened almost overnight. Don't get me wrong. I adore my Dad. He was the replacement. But for some reason I'm so goddamn melancholy now, and I think much has to do with that porch and that house and my unquestioning acceptance of men who don't show. And how I can just go to sleep. And how no one knows if something is wrong. It's all on that porch, with that little girl. Sitting by herself.

Sunday morning: I've had time to sleep on this. A lot of time to sleep. Some of it not so good, most of it very good. And I've had time to think about replacing the man who did not pick me up for skating. I know, as a woman, that he can not be replaced. I know, as a woman, that the hurts from long ago are the left-over hurts of a little girl who didn't understand why/how a man goes away. And I also know that I have carried these hurts with me, reliving them when someone leaves. I also know that I have fear of sitting on my porch alone, again. But each time I go through it, I am that much more aware of from where the pain springs. And I am not alone this very moment, this very day. I need not wait to be abandoned...for that is a waste of the miraculous life that I have now. And who is to say that it will happen again? I have no idea what the future holds. I simply have no idea. The woman is asking the little girl to step aside.