Porch Swing Love

Texas straw grass sways like ocean waves in a scorched field. Sun rays beam aggressively against the dehydrated soil. The sound of insects fills the atmosphere, an overwhelming feeling of calm and peace floods the surrounding fields. Tractors skim the wheat fields and collect what is known around here as "God's gift." A white farm-style home with a wrap-around porch sits picture perfect in the middle of paradise. Three large willows face the house, dragging their limbs on the ground. Walking through the willows reminds me of her touch. Approaching the porch I walk up the sun-bleached steps and find myself on the southern-style porch swing. Here is where the story begins and ends. Standing over the white, peeling paint swing I can remember her smell and smile. Like a dream, I sit down and reminisce in what many would call, "dead nothing for miles." To me this was home, maybe even the garden of Eden. Resting my back on the frail wooden support beams on the chair I feel as though time has robbed me of what could have been. My curly hair gleams with sweat. This part of the day was her favorite. Sitting here we watch the sunset over the flat land and anticipate how boastful the moon would appear. Sweet tea was an absolute tradition to have every night. Overcome with emotion, the humid wind collides with my falling tear and causes it to fall onto the bench and not my lap. On this swing, we talked about some of the most monumental factors in one's life. Who was God? Who am I? What will I do with my life? Will I ever find love? She was always there. Never shy to share advice, she was always outspoken. Calm and honest. If I had described her in two words. I can remember one evening I hopped off the big yellow bus, dashed home, and told her the boys at school were calling me a "sissy boy." Sitting on the swing, she looked at me with her big blue eyes and soft facial features and said, "remember this, the weakest men always try to cut down the strongest." Later in my teenage years when I confided my identity about being gay, she without a beat repeated the same phrase and continued to say, "if you cannot stand on your own two feet and be who you are, where will you stand?" For a woman in the deep south to even remotely suggest this topic was extremely taboo especially in the 1970s. I regress to the present moment on this swing and slowly shuffle my feet against the stained wooden floors. The word 'good' doesn't even describe how kind her soul was. Staring off to the willow trees I can see the sun peer through the drooping willows. Fireflies dance around the stump area of all three trees. The chain holding the lengthy swing squeaks as they meet with friction. I turn my head to the right and cross my sweaty legs. When I close my eyes I can see her crystal clear smile. Holding her tired hands brought me a peace that is indescribable to any feeling I've ever felt. Her voice was smooth as silk. Looking back now, I wish I would have embraced every moment with more precision. There was and will never be a love like hers. Being here without her is something I never thought I would have to do. She was my call when I got lonely. My best friend. My heart and soul.

Lighting strikes on the ridge. I grasp the delicate white wooden bench handle and position myself to stand up. Gaining enough strength I stand up and look off the porch steps to see a beaten path to the willow tresses. Thunder hums across the open plains. My hands sweat and my back tenses up. One step at a time I walk the path. My boots against the dry dense ground I slowly approach one of the trees. A tear glides down my cheek. My eyes look up to the top of the tree and hesitantly look down to the foot of the great tree. A body shaped mound and a cross lay at the end of the tree. The words on the cross. "I love you, mom."