Porches (Girl on the Porch)
The road the
trail came out to, looked to be unmaintained.
Sun baked weeds reached up through the cracked pavement, where they
wilted, tasting the fate of their endeavor.
The surface of the lane was crumbling, and crawling vines stretched out
from the shoulders, hoping to reach the other side before being died by the sun. To the right the ribbon of blacktop went
downhill toward a landscape occupied by other travelers. To the left the road inclined. There were houses along the climb, old and
decayed, begging for new life, and a large grove of trees near the crest of the
ascent.
“Come with
us.”
There were
three others, two men and a woman. Lucas
was the one who spoke. It would be him
that would utter the invitation. The
others didn’t seem to have permission to speak.
I had met the three of them along the trail. Lucas couldn’t say enough about the things he
owned, the places he’d been, and the things he’d accomplished. While he boasted, the other two listened
intently, fringing on worship. The other
man was named Phillipe. He spoke only to
introduce himself, same with Janet, the woman, who seemed apologetic for
uttering a sound.
“This looks
like the better choice,” Lucas shouted as the three started down the hill. I shook my head. I was prepared to go in whichever direction
Lucas and his band of followers chose to neglect.
“Suit
yourself,” Lucas called, for what I hoped was the last time. “We are
three. With you we would be four. There is strength in numbers.”
I ignored
him, turned my back, and started walking uphill.
The few
houses I passed seemed abandoned. They
were old, two storied, traditional. Some
had porches, some did not. They all need
paint. A few of the roofs sagged. Most had broken shutters and shattered
windows.
I stumbled
over a broken piece of pavement. I
wondered how much time had passed since this byway was cared for, or even
travelled upon. Time has its way of
eroding life, if we allow its progress.
“Hello!”
The voice
startled me. I’d been staring at an old
structure on my right. One with vines,
thorns and thistles claiming back the occupied space. The shout came from the opposite side of the
street. A young girl, maybe eleven or
twelve, stood on the porch of a house that appeared more livable than the
others.
She waved
and shouted, “The sun is quite warm. The
porch is shady, quite cool. Perhaps you
should come here and rest before continuing on.”
I didn’t
respond to the invitation. I shoved my
hands in the pockets of my jeans, suddenly realizing how warm the sun actually
was. I took a step off the crumbing
asphalt and onto the edge of a sun burnt lawn of dead clover and dandelions.
“Who are
you?” I asked, not sure why her identity might be important.
“I am just
who I am. I have no name. Don’t think I was ever given one. Those who pass by call me ‘Hey you’, or
‘Little Girl’.”
“Do many
pass by… on this road, it doesn’t look travelled?” I took another step away
from the road. A crumbling sidewalk
seemed to slip beneath my feet.
“Not
recently,” she replied.
She stood at
the top of the stairs, wearing a pink and white gingham dress that fell too short
of her knees. She wore ankle socks and
white and black saddle back shoes. Her
hair was a dark shade of blonde, tied back in a ponytail with a pink ribbon.
“But there
have been some who came this way?” I added to my earlier query.
“Most, like
those who were with you, go the other way… that is their choice.”
I stepped
off the dead lawn, back onto the road, and looked back from where I had
come. The trail was lost behind a bend
in the road. Even if she had come down
onto the pavement, she couldn’t have seen the others.
In answer to
a question I didn’t ask, she said, “I saw them from the room up top. There is just one small room up there. One of the windows looks out over the forest
and the trail. I saw you with the two
men… and the woman. I knew you would
come this way. I hoped she would.”
“She? Why?” I asked the dual question. The answer seemed important, although I had
no idea why.
She sat on
the top step and answered me with another invitation to seek some shade. This time I accepted, walked up the crumbling
concrete sidewalk and the three rickety wooden steps. I sat beside her. She looked at me with a rather round face and
two brown eyes, flecked with gold.
“I had
thought she would, pass by,” she began. “Some people find it difficult.”
“Because of
the incline?” I asked.
“Perhaps,”
she replied, then added, “But there is often more than just the upward climb of
the road that makes one turn to face the downward slope. Some are just afraid of the porches. So, I wait.
I watch people pass by. There is
no one else to wander the rooms of this house… except me.”
“Porches,” I
said, confused, wondering why anyone would be afraid of a porch, or a young
girl in a pink and white gingham dress.
“It’s the
way it is sometimes,” she responded. “Often it is difficult for people to
accept things, even if…”
She didn’t
finish her response. I had another
question to ask, “How long have you been here… alone?” An assumption on my
part, since no parent had yet scolded her for talking to a stranger.
She shrugged
her thin shoulders. “I have no idea. I
think I have always been here. I did not
come on the trail, like some do. I was
just here. You know, it’s about
forgiveness. That is my reason for being
here… on the porch. I am here to
forgive. That is the reason I wait. But she didn’t come this way… the woman who
was with you—”
“Janet,” I
said, interrupting her thought.
She smiled.
“I did not know her name. But I saw
her. I wanted to speak to her. Tell her that the hill is easy to climb. I would have walked with her. Perhaps, it would have been nice. But she followed the other, the man who is
filled with himself. When you are as he
is there is no empty place for anyone else.
It’s sad. She will follow. So will the other man.”
“Maybe
she’ll change her mind and come back this way,” I said, seeing a bit of sadness
in her expression.
“No,” she
replied, shaking her head. Suddenly her
features brightened. She rose to her
feet and stepped down to the sidewalk. “You can wait here if you have that
need. Some don’t. Or, perhaps, you could walk with me. Forgiveness is important. Even if those we forgive don’t wish to
receive what we offer.”
I stood,
looked back at the old house and the porch.
I could think of no reason to stay. “We can walk together,” I said, as
we both started toward the dilapidated road. “And maybe pick out a name, other
than ‘Hey You’, or ‘Little Girl’.”
She paused
before stepping off the dead grass. “I like the clover,” she said, “before the
sun has baked it from white to brown.”
“Then Clover
it is.”
She beamed
with a broad smile. “I finally have a name, thank you!”
We started
up the road, braving the warmth of the sun. “Once we reach the top,” I said, as
Clover skipped along, “What will we find?”
Pausing, she
took hold of my hand, as if to pull me along.
She locked her eyes on mine and said, “Home.”
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