Porches

Dear You,

The rain this early afternoon came while I was sitting on my porch reading a novel my guest left behind. The lanai, as it is known here, has a metal covering, and the sound drew me away from the scene of the crime in my story and, within a moment, transported me up the Atlantic coast 1,403 miles to another porch and another time.

I spent only a short time each Summer on the porch in Manomet, MA. Those days, like the house itself, no longer exist -- the house, unlike my memories of it, have been bulldozed and carted to a landfill.

Memories, I think, are a sort of landfill, too. More easily mined, sometimes, for the treasures we bury there. In the case today, I closed my eyes and back I went, lying on one of the spare beds, a book nearby, listening to the rain strike the rubber roof and watching the reflection of myself in the windows that had been swung open and hooked to the rafters.

I was transported, and with a great sense of longing had to pull myself back here to March 22 in Florida. Back to the scene of the crime.