Whispers of Autumn’s End
The porch swing creaked gently as Mr. Anderson sat there, his aged hands gripping the cool, weathered wood. He swayed back and forth, a soft rhythm that mirrored the heartbeat of the perfect fall day. The leaves were painting a masterpiece in shades of crimson, gold, and amber, whispering secrets as they descended to the ground.
Across the street, young children gathered in a yard, their laughter echoing through the crisp air. They raked leaves into a sprawling pile and then, with exuberance, leaped into it, their carefree joy a stark contrast to the contemplative stillness on the porch.
Further down the street, the young adults hurried by with grocery bags in hand, their faces etched with fatigue. Their daily grind seemed endless as they navigated the mundane tasks of life. Mr. Anderson watched them, understanding the preciousness of each moment that slipped away.
A young mother strolled past, pushing a carriage with a bundle of hope and dreams wrapped in blankets. She would pause now and then to check on her baby, making sure they were safe and warm in the embrace of the season. Mr. Anderson's gaze lingered on her, seeing in her the endless possibilities of life yet to unfold.
As he continued to swing, a sweet, loving couple, the wrinkles of time etched into their faces, walked hand in hand. They had weathered the years together, enduring what many could not. Mr. Anderson couldn't help but smile as he watched them. He knew the beauty of a love that had stood the test of time. The retired couple passed by the young mother and her stroller, their eyes meeting with a shared understanding. There was no need for words; their presence alone was a testament to the enduring power of love. Mr. Anderson marveled at the journey they had traveled and the wisdom they had gained.
A gust of wind rustled the leaves, and Mr. Anderson's grip on the porch swing loosened. His muscles relaxed, and the coffee cup once gripped tight, slipped from his hand and hit the ground with a soft thud. The world around him seemed to blur as a warm, comforting breeze enveloped him. It was as if the universe itself was whispering secrets only he could hear. The light grew brighter, casting a warm glow that threatened to blind him. A sense of peace and happiness overwhelmed him as he realized he was finally coming home. Though the word "cancer" had never been spoken, the unspoken truth hung in the air. It was a journey he had undertaken with courage and grace, and now, it was time to embrace the next adventure.
As the porch swing continued to sway, empty now, the world carried on, oblivious to the silent departure. Leaves kept falling, children played, young adults hurried, and the young mother strolled with her dreams. The loving couple, forever connected, walked on, passing the spot where Mr. Anderson had once sat.
Granny’s Swing
According to Granny, Grandpa Aaron built the swing for Granny when they was still courtin'. Granny said one Sunday after supper they'd been sittin' on the steps holdin' hands, and she was talking out loud, dreamin' 'bout when they'd get married and have they own house with a lemonade porch and a swing to set in of a night, watching the stars and the fireflies, swaying to and fro and wouldn't that be somethin', Aaron?
Grandpa was the doin' sort. He never just talked about things. Granny said he was a doer, not a dreamer. So, by the time they married, Grandpa had built that house Granny dreamed about with the lemonade porch and the swing built for two.
Over the years Mama and her brothers and sisters did a lot of swinging on that porch, with and without Granny. Grandpa had to fix it more times than he could count. Once was 'cause Uncle Leroy thought he would push Auntie Mae so high she'd fly to the moon (and far away from Petersburg. They never got along. Still don't and they old as sin now.) All he did, though, was bust the swing and Auntie Mae's lip. And get a whuppin' they still laugh about. He wasn't laughin' then, o' course. 'Specially since Auntie Mae didn't go nowhere and was still her bossy, nasty self...as Uncle Leroy tells it.
When I was a little'un, I used to love to sit in the swing with Granny. I would lay with my head on her lap, and she'd set the swing to rocking with her foot. A slow swayin', while she'd hum some hymn from church and smooth my hair or stroke my arm softly, sometimes whispering well lookie there baby girl, the fireflies are out tonight. Go run and catch one for Granny. Or, don't the sky look like God scattered diamonds just so we could love the night sky as much as the day?
Granny died last summer. After the funeral, we had people back to the house like you do. The house Grandpa Aaron had built for Granny more than 60 years ago. I didn't cry when she passed. I was holding her hand when God called her home. I didn't cry at the service. Being strong for Mama, maybe. But that evening, after everyone had paid their respects and gone on home, I sat on the porch swing, pushing it gently, watching the fireflies and the stars as I wept.
The Porch Swing
Creak. Squeak. Creak creak. Squeak squeak. That’s the sound of the porch swing. There’s no wind. There’s no one sitting in it. It just rocks a freakish lullaby all night long. I look out the window time and again to see nothing. Just the swing, slowly rocking back and forth. During the day, even when the wind picks up, the swing doesn’t rock. It’s only at night.
I sat in it once. My nerves went crazy. I got chills and started shaking. I never sat in it again. Not at night.
It’s been six months since I moved in. I still look anxiously out the window half the night. Last night when I looked, there was a little dog. Gazing up at the swing. Tail wagging. Perfectly happy. Just sitting there. Looking at the swing. Darndest thing.
This morning the dog was gone. Don’t know whose it could be. I don’t have neighbors for a half mile. Never seen it before.
I heard tell of a young woman who used to live here. Rocked her baby in the cold air at night because it was colicky. Helped it sleep. This is what the townsfolk chose to tell me when I complained about the creaky swing. Fuckers.
Story goes, the baby didn’t make it out of infancy. Caught a fever it couldn’t shake. The daddy left shortly after that. Couldn’t handle the loss I guess.
There’s been tenants here since then, though. I’m not the first. No one seems to know what happened to the lady. Or anyway, they ain’t willing to tell me.
Maybe I’ll get one of those new age white noise thingys. So I can’t hear that infernal creaking and squeaking. Wood creaking, metal squeaking. It’s damned unnerving.
I tried taking down the porch swing once already. When I did, I heard a baby crying all night long. Darndest thing. Figure it’s one of the neighbors, and that noisy swing actually blocks the sound. I lasted three days and put the swing back up. It’s a better noise than a baby crying anyway.
I oiled the hinges once too. Felt like creak creak creak is better than creak squeak squeak. Sat in the swing (it was daytime now I already said it’s too creepy at night), nary a squeak. That night though, creak squeak creak squeak.
Yeah, I think a noise machine is the way to go. Maybe I’ll get one with ocean sounds.
I do wonder what’s up with that dog though. Should I leave food for it? It looked well fed and groomed actually. Must’ve just wandered over. Strange that it didn’t bark at the swing. There is a dog door. It’s been locked for a while by the looks of it but maybe the dog used to live here, and then it was given to a neighbor or something.
Never thought I’d think this much about a porch swing. It’s strange though, innit?
The Gamble
A porch swing has a most distinguishing aspect.
It swings, of course, it does; but that's not it. It's the slots. Horizontal or vertical, the space between the wood, or metal, or fiberglass, or hemp-string, ensures the swing is always occupied.
Notice the way it rocks, startled at the slightest provocation of coming and going. The wind? or the Spirit world, passing through to rest, but for a moment? Out of habit.
When we sit, big or small, we displace the invisible and disturb its momentum...
We are spoilers diverting the cosmic flow. And while this may be true standing, or walking, or settling on a boulder, it is nevertheless in a porch swing that we feel the least alone, sitting next to who knows who...
10.20.2023
Porch Swing challenge @ChrisSadhill
A Mother’s Love
Consumed by the grief of my late husband, I lay my head on my mother’s lap. She somehow makes everything better. She was humming that silly song from my 2nd birthday. The one about tea parties under the cherry tree. The gentle swaying of the porch swing reminds me of how she used to rock me back to sleep when I had nightmares. Oh how I wish this was just a nightmare. No one else could provide me this kind of peace during such a tragedy.
While I lay, I try to focus on the blooming spring flowers. However, as I search into the garden for the hope of distraction, neighbors slow as they walk by. No doubt trying to catch a glimpse of the town's newest widow. I turn my head back to my mother’s face, how she is so strong. Afterall, she lost a son in law, yet, she is here pretending everything is alright in order to comfort me. There is nothing quite like a mother’s love, although often misguided, I know she is always here for me.
Origami
The air settles like a chilled evening sigh into the oak swing's seat. Sheltered there just enough to shiver and hesitate a little with the brush of autumn leaves. Yoko Mori is proud of the oiled and matte one she has hanging within the front porch of the house. It must be a Western invention, she thinks. So seldom used.
Is an inspiration raised in the rocking, or do ideas die there, fleeting? --a colander.
She drafts a suburban haiku from the living room window, folding the sheets with crisp lines of shadow:
Perspectives fielded
board and nails, bench and guardrail
a lattice work
Nothing Is Forever
So long ago I don't remember when
That's when they said I lost my only friend
Well they said she died easy of a broke heart disease
As I listened through the cemetery trees
The suicide note started with song lyrics, and the Detective stared at the bloodstained paper. His eyes, unfocused, darted from the page (carefully stored in an evidence bag) in his hand to the body crumpled against the wall. He stared off into yesterdays he knew and tomorrows this girl never would.
His younger partner, still an apprentice, stood over his shoulder. He gagged, waving away flies. Reaching into a coat pocket, the veteran handed over a bottle of Mentholatum for the younger man do dab under each nostril.
"What do you see?" the old man asked. Knees protested standing with creaks and pops.
"I see a girl who ate a thirty-eight about a week ago."
"Anything else?"
"She was a fan of one-hit wonders?"
"They had thirteen top-ten hits, smartass."
"Oh, I guess I should apologize?"
"Show some fucking respect for the dead girl's good taste, you ape."
"Careful, Inspector. I could interpret that as racist."
"And I could break a foot off in your ass."
"Hostile work environment. I think you're flirting with me now."
"Let's step outside. This place stinks about like your sense of humor."
"Oh, shit. Now you wanna fight?"
"Kid, I'm too old to fight and too young to die. Let's just get some air."
They stepped out the front door of the old cottage. Originally built for workers of the nearby cotton mill, the paint was peeling and the floor sagged. The porch was missing several boards, and an old swing hung unevenly from rusted chains. Testing fate, the old man lit a cigarette and lowered himself into the swing.
I seen the sun comin' up at the funeral at dawn
With the long broken arm of human law
Now it always seemed such a waste
She always had a pretty face
I wondered why she hung around this place
Virginia tobacco couldn't quite hide the scent of dried copper and rotting meat, but it helped. The detective read through the note again, flicking ashes on weatherworn boards that saw its best days before he was in high school.
"What you thinkin' boss?"
He stops reading, closes his eyes, and leans back. He exhales smoke with a weary sigh.
"I think she found her own way out of the maze of ugliness and greed, kid. I just hope wherever she is now, both headlights work and she found something better than in the middle. But now she knows some things do last forever."
Confused, the younger investigator just shakes his head and goes back in to supervise the coroners as they move the body to the morgue.
Swing
I groan under his weight. Weathered wood creaks, double loop chains twist and strain. I hold tight to keep eye hooks from pulling out. Please don't swing, Bob. He's gotten heavier the last few years.
She comes out of the house. They used to swing together, whispering, caressing, kissing. I'm ashamed for being grateful she doesn't sit next to him anymore. Their combined weight would destroy me.
"Bob," she says, tired, empty. Love is an action and a chore, no longer a feeling and a delight. "It's time."
"Marla," he's exhausted from the weight of existence. He doesn't know how he got here, carrying twice the load any man should have to carry. He doesn't know if it's his fault.
Bob gets up, pushing against my armrests as gently as he can. "I'm sorry." He gives her a sweet half-smile.
Marla's eyes soften. Some feeling remains. Enough. "It's ok."
They walk down the steps to their car and drive off.
When they come back, he's wearing a plastic bracelet. He sits, out of breath from the short climb up the porch stairs. Wordlessly, Marla gets a cup of water, hands him a pill. He swallows it, and leans back, closes his eyes.
I sway heavily back and forth, I... know... I... know... I... know...
***
Bob loses weight, and his hair. He sits so Marla can shave off the rest. He looks pretty good bald. He's aged 10 years, Marla looks the same.
"Do I look like a bad boy? I've heard good girls like bad boys."
"Oh yeah, the baddest." Marla strokes his bald head gently, he can't see her smile, but we both hear it. She cleans up the hair and says, "Let's go."
She helps him down the stairs.
When they return, Bob moves awkwardly, painfully, Marla helps him from the car. They sit, tenderly. There's a space between them, just big enough for the child they didn't know they wanted and now they'll never have. The space looks insurmountable. But they reach out and hold hands. They cry. Marla rests her head on Bob's shoulder.
I sigh quietly the words unsaid, love... you... love... you... love... you...
***
Bob and Marla swing friskily, she's humming a tune and playing with his hair. It's grown back a different shade and texture, perpetually sexily tousled.
"Last chance for who knows how long," Bob murmurs huskily.
"We'll find a way," Marla kisses him with warmth. "It's time."
They bounce down the stairs together.
When they return, they open the door for a young child.
He looks scared, uncertain, hopeful. Bob gets the boy's belongings. A pitifully small bundle.
The boy looks around, searching for danger or safety. Then he sees me. "A porch swing! Can I?" He looks at Marla, at Bob.
"Of course Jake," Marla says. Bob just nods.
Jake runs up the steps and throws himself on me. I hold his slight weight easily.
I whisper what we're all thinking, know... love... know... love... know... love...
The Porch Swing
Sunday afternoons I spend my time staring at the porch swing outside my window. I don't know why I keep the damn thing; I haven't sat in it in nearly two years. Well, it probably has been longer. I have grown too fat, and the strings are too frayed. I guess I am still waiting to lose weight, but who loses weight anymore? I mean, health is so passé, plus I have the money to pay for companionship. So why would I bother losing weight and why would I keep that damn porch swing? I guess the only reason why is a reminder of a life that existed for me a while ago. A life with a wife, kids, long walks, and salads. But fuck vegetables, right?!?