The Porch

I remember a day when summers were spent leisurely on the porch
swinging and sweating and telling stories to little ones
and singing songs while the summer breeze brushed our cheeks. 
Times when I didn’t wear a watch or watch for the sun to hang low,
so I could beat it to bed in an effort to ease the weariness in my body.
I remember when time wasn’t pulling on me, wearing me down
with schedules and clocks and keys, deadlines and demands. 
I know now why my mother looks troubled when she looks at me,
like I’ve done something wrong, a disappointment of sorts.
And all I can do is feel defeated by it all, overwhelmed and wishing
for a day when I could just let the ease out of my shoulders.
I read a book, and as the character gently walks up on the porch to
greet her mother who is rocking in a chair, I see it all so much clearer. 
My mother is sad, because life has gotten so complicated
and for all the wrong reasons.  She sees her daughters, not rising to greet
the sun, but rising to beat the sun. 
She sees us running out our door with dishes left in the sink
and squeezing nourishment and self care into our hectic days
of working for money to pay for things we should not have had;
things we did not need, but felt would be the road to that front porch feeling.
And yet, here we are now, so far from the porch,
we have even forgotten what the front porch feeling was. 
But I am remembering it now.  Is it too late to go back? 
I am not sure; just how do I get there?

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