I drove by the old house yesterday. There was snow on the spintered railing, and the gaping glassless windows seemed to look out with dignity instead of ignored pathos. Snow has a way of making all things beautiful with their ugliness hidden for a time.
That old front porch could tell a thousand stories, stories of hot summers when we sat there with our lemonade hoping it would rain, waiting for the clouds to darken and spill their heavy load to the ground- then my friends and I would run with abandon through the drops.
When I was older, I remember sitting on that porch, taking a cold iced tea glass and running it over my forehead and cheeks, then the expanse of chest uncovered by an old cotton dress. I'd lay my head back against the cushion of the porch swing and glide slowly to and fro to the music on the radio, and sometimes when my beau came to call, we'd get lost in that easy action of just being young and alive.
Yes indeed, a thousand stories about that od front porch, but now it's just a snow-crowned skeleton, waiting to die.
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Judith Anne Labriola
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