Grandma’s Front Porch

The sky has stripes of red and the apple tree is just a silhouette.

Summer evenings.

The cicadas make a steady strum in the background to match the almost silent beat of the ceiling fan. A glass of wine and sweet tea sit sweating on the wicker table as I sprawl on the matching couch. The breeze from the fan and the laughter from people outside wafts over me.

It’s like an old southern novel.

Time seems to spread out before me motionless. I feel boredom knocking to be let in, but I’m too relaxed to contemplate being thus. Someone gets up to walk the dog another to clean the dishes.

The light from the kitchen suddenly beams bright.

The clock in my brain starts ticking. The moment dissipates and I’m left with the feeling of losing something that never really existed.

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