This front porch is my haven of sanity. On either end are a set of beautiful wind chimes that play varying tunes at the slightest breeze. Between them are full, still-green ferns that hang from the eaves, and on either end of this long porch are macho ferns that have grown-up to their name, firmly rooted in black urn planters.
Looking straight ahead, I see a wooden swing held firm in the ground by wooden posts covered in Jasmine – those posts are the same posts that held the original swing that my Daddy bought me and my boys almost 17 years ago right after my divorce. I think he believed that the swing would bring my little family smiles, laughter and many conversations – serious and silly - that would become needed memories in the years to come, and he was right.
Over the years, the rain and general weather chipped away at the original swing and it has since been replaced, but those posts have stood steady and firm and have followed me all the way from their original land-site in Leesburg, Georgia where my Daddy and my children put the first post-holes in the ground, to my first home in Quincy on Hwy 65, and now here, their final resting place.
All the smells of what a first chill brings are abound; fireplaces burning their first wood of the season, and off in the distance, the drifting smoky air brings smells from possible fire pits and I’m imagining happy people sitting around them, laughing and telling stories about other good times from days gone by.
I have never felt safer and more secure than I do right now – even though I am alone, and sitting in the dark; because this is my home, this is where I feel the most loved and needed – and what could possibly ever change that?
It’s hard to imagine on a night like this, that the sky could explode right in front of my face and everything about life would be instantly changed. It’s even harder to imagine that my loved ones could be taken from me, or that in a blink of an eye – I could be gone as well. Just how insane is it that we could become “those” people to who “those” things happen?
For many days to come, the people of France will be reeling from the death and destruction that exploded in their skies, in their faces, and to their bodies. Families are searching, grieving, and still praying for miracles.
As I slowly sway back and forth, and my bare feet brush the wood below them, I’m wondering how long it will be before people like me/us, will become those other people. People who were living life - until hate took over, and then they weren’t.