Dear Porch,
Even though tonight you are under a thin covering of wintery mix, at approximately 7:30 pm on Saturday, June 15th, I hope to find you bathed in mottled sunlight and to feel your dusty, dry warmth under my bare feet. Your floor will be littered with frisbees, bubble wands and baseball bats, and I'll be fresh from the shower, the skin on my nose stretched tight and tinted pink, my muscles sore from yard work. Don't bother getting gussied up for our date, Porch, because I'll be wearing my most presentable pair of stretchy shorts and that one sporty t-shirt. Remember? It's that perfect specimen of cotton that has earned its softness from constant wardrobe rotation since 2004. Yeah. That one.
When we notice that the iPod has been loaded on the dock and is playing the music that says summer, we will know we are no longer alone, Porch. When Neil joins us, we'll notice a layer of sawdust adorning the sun-bleached hair on his work-tanned skin, and fresh grass clippings clinging to his shoes and the bottom of his jeans. He'll bring us two ice cold beers nestled in their koozies, and with the crack of the can our jaws will unclentch and our shoulders will relax. It will cost nothing and mean everything all at the same time.
Hope to see you then.
When we notice that the iPod has been loaded on the dock and is playing the music that says summer, we will know we are no longer alone, Porch. When Neil joins us, we'll notice a layer of sawdust adorning the sun-bleached hair on his work-tanned skin, and fresh grass clippings clinging to his shoes and the bottom of his jeans. He'll bring us two ice cold beers nestled in their koozies, and with the crack of the can our jaws will unclentch and our shoulders will relax. It will cost nothing and mean everything all at the same time.
Hope to see you then.
Much Love,
Erin
