The front porch
of my house was another place where I would often go and think, or not
think—I could just as easily stare blankly down the road with nothing
more than a quiet hum in my head. I
liked it because being there didn’t suggest a commitment to any
particular action, staying or leaving.
It was outside, but not quite gone.
If someone inside called to me and I didn’t want to be found, I
could rush off to somewhere else. The porch was
painted, a slippery perfect gray finish.
It never made sense to me that my mom painted the concrete,
especially considering that she painted it the same color it was to
begin with, a dull gray. But,
she liked everything to be perfect.
My mom believed that your environment influenced the rest of your
life. If you could keep the
house you lived in clean and orderly, the events of your life would
follow in like manner—at least that was her theory.
Even when things were crazy, my mom always insisted that
everything was fine. If you
said any different, she would say that you must be tired or hungry,
always implying that the problem was with your perception. All you needed to do was change your attitude and clean your
room, and everything would be just fine.
© Salahub 2003 |