My grandmother had a porch in Mississippi. Screened in and spacious, the kind of porch you could lose a whole afternoon on. As a little girl, I loved going out there. It was my favorite place in the world. We’d sit and just talk. My grandmother, my mama, my aunts, my sister, me. My best friend too, if I brought her along. Years later my own daughter Ellie played on that same porch. Everybody ended up out there eventually. That screened-in porch was where the family gathered, even for my beautiful grandmother’s funeral. The porch gave us something I didn’t have a word for back then. Ease. Nobody was performing out there. Nobody was being judged. You could come out with happy news, like a pregnancy you couldn’t wait to tell your mama and your aunts. You could come out with hard news too. A failed class. A job working you to the bone and paying you next to nothing. The porch held all of it. Wisdom got passed down on that porch. Funny stories. Family history. Permission to be exactly who you wanted to be.
Pull Up a Chair
