Memories on the Porch
I sit on the porch almost every day during the summer months. The old quince tree, that never produced a quince, is home to a multitude of birds that serenade me. The breeze gently weaves through its leaves and branches. In spring, the lilac trees that Peter and I had bought a happy lifetime ago and planted on the edge by the sidewalk emit a heady perfume that wafts throughout the whole neighborhood.
I love sitting here. The porch holds such lovely memories. I remember my parents breakfasting here with us on weekends when they came to visit. I remember my niece and nephew coming for visits. They were so young. Peter and I delighted in having them with us. He would take off from work, and we would take them to the zoo or to a hundred-plus-year-old carousel for rides, or we would go boat riding in Central Park with Max, our dog, sitting between the two children as we rowed along. I remember Peter leaning back on his chair, stretching his legs in front of him on this porch. His eyes would grow heavy, and soon he would snooze. His beautiful smile would linger about his lips even as he slept.
Over forty years, I have lived in this house. Everyone has left. Now I have only my thoughts to keep me company. They are happy thoughts. So much life has been lived in this house.
As I sit on the porch, sometimes I read, sometimes I dream, and sometimes I people watch. Recently I noticed a young Chinese woman walking up and down the block. She and her family must have just moved in. I hadn’t seen her before. A little girl holds onto her skirt, and she carries an infant in her arms. She gently rocks the baby to put him to sleep. Up and down the block, she goes during the morning hours before it becomes uncomfortably warm. At the end of the day, when it cools down, she is back again with her little girl and her baby. She doesn’t seem to have anyone to talk to. It reminds me of myself when we first came to this country. For a long time, it was so very lonely, so unfriendly. I watch her as she walks up and down the street. The sidewalks are empty. Because of the pandemic, there is no sound of children at play, no neighbors hanging around chatting with each other, no sound of laughter. Only the birds are busy chattering. The young mother has gone home. What would she think, forty years from now? Would she sit back and contemplate as well?
It is almost dusk. A young girl jogs by, her ponytail swinging from side to side. Soon she is gone, and then there is solitude. There is just me left. Even the birds are quieting down. The turtle dove coos to its mate, ‘’Coo, coo, my beloved. The day is almost done. Let us retire to our nests.’’ Soon the crickets will start their evening song. The air is turning chilly. Reluctantly I gather up my books and computer and go inside.