Saturday morning, I stepped outside to pick up our New York Times. The wicker furniture was gone. I was surprised Tom would put away the wicker so early. The kids come for a visit next week and if the weather holds, breakfast on the porch would be a summer benediction.
But Tom hadn’t stored the furniture. It was stolen. Both wicker chairs, the table, and the glass I had cut to fit the table. They climbed up on the porch rail and took the two Boston ferns from their hooks. They took my yellow mum that was just blossoming. They even took its plant stand.
Later on, I thought to check the side porch. Everything was in place. My old clogs wait for our next gardening day. Ivy still hangs from the eve. Hens and chicks still adorn Peter’s old boots.
The mum can be easily replaced. So can the ferns. Eventually, we’ll replace the wicker. Peter’s boots, though, would come around only once.
We spend a lot of time on our front porch. The porch swing offers a view of Franklin Park as well as the houses on Walnut. We live in an urban neighborhood. At least, it’s urban for a town in the midwest.
From our front porch, we see neighbors walking their dogs, a dad who jogs while pushing his stroller, and one thug who guns his motorcycle too fast. Mostly, though, we just swing, talk to each other, and enjoy a glass of wine and sometimes some supper.