Porch Swing by Natalie Harris-Spencer
I inherit the house with the wraparound lemonade porch from my dead Papi . The bequest comes as a bit of a shock : I haven ’ t visited him since two Christmases ago , stopped calling by the hospice , but he sputters his dying wish to a bedside stranger : that I should be the grandchild who gets the house .
It takes me less than a week to pack up my boxy apartment into two wheely suitcases and invade the empty rooms . The whole house smells of mildew and tobacco , of him . Thick , like a cigar cloud clinging . I crinkle my nose . Disgusting habit . His shabby sweaters and crisp slacks are still hanging in the armoire , waiting to be worn .
Outside , I breathe easier . There ’ s something about the romance of this porch scene that deeply appeals : a rocking chair , a page-turner , a glass of white summer wine . The porch is huge . Six symmetrical pillars support the ivycloaked verandah . On the south-west side , a porch swing flanked by iron chains is mounted to the shiplap . The bench has warped over time ; it rises ever so gradually at the sides like it ’ s grinning .
I take a salad bowl of sweet potatoes outside to peel on my lap . I bring wine . The chains squeak , clogged up with rust as I rock to and fro , to and fro . It hasn ’ t held human weight in a while . I hum , inhaling the evening , rocking , humming , and peeling , taking in the clingy scent
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