The Porch

I climb the six wide wooden front steps as I had so many unconscious times before.  Toddler on left hip, grocery bag on right hip, the two other small children running ahead and bursting through the front door of our house.  

As I was wrestling to keep the family dog inside my oldest son asks ”Mom why are there two men in our house?”  Putting down my two hefty bundles, I cross the threshold. There were in fact two men in my living room.

One of the men I actually recognized.  An old friend of a friend, a renowned real estate investor.  They were here to buy my house.  The house my husband had, just that morning, listed for sale without my knowledge.  Apparently we are getting a divorce.

The brown paper grocery bag teetered on the front porch as the similarly colored dog clamored past it. I notice the white steps need painting.  

I unkindly tell the men to leave.  They stumble out of the house awkwardly, over the children, not looking at me embarrassed by their unknowing invasion, around the grocery bag and past the inquisitory old mutt.  

I slump down onto the paint chipped steps.  It was mid summer, my favorite season, hot sun blazing through our leafed out trees.  The dappling of the sunlight dancing in their own rhythm.  My wet bathing suit under my sundress leaves a mark as I sit still on the steps.

This house, in its arts and crafts style of angels and wood  with a covered front porch that wraps around it as if in a hug, is also a home.  I had recently painted the porch ceiling a robin eggs blue.  The old wooden porch swing gently swayed on its rusted chains.  The uneven wooden floor planks of the porch lay out like ripples on a pond.  I slid from slumped to horizontal staring up at the blue ceiling, feeling the unevenness of the floor boards beneath my back.  

I catch from the corner of my eye the white melted goo oozing from the bottom of the miraculously still standing grocery bag, blending into the white of the chipped painted steps.

I am relieved and surrender.  I finally let go.