We spoke by phone. I sat in my kitchen in Somerville, MA while my younger brother sat outside his home in Lynchburg, VA. After I had described my latest walk by the water and what I might write about, he said, “Mmmhmm. I think you should write some more about porches.”
“Porches?”
“Yes. About what it’s like to sit on the porch steps at night, in the quiet and in the cool, with fireflies in the distance. They look like stars.”
I imagined him sitting on his little back porch. I thought about the seeds I had sent him and his family. “Next year, I am sending you night blooming flowers.”
“That’s fine,” he said, and then he added, “And you should write about wearing glasses, how we wear them to see clearly, these wire frames that are not heavy but somehow you feel their weight all the time, and if you have long eyelashes you’re constantly batting them against the lenses. Yeah, there’s always contacts … but somehow when you wear glasses and then you sit and you take them off … you can’t see as clearly and yet there is a certain sense of freedom. A weight has been removed. Though your view is a bit blurry somehow you can see with greater clarity the beauty all around.”
“I gave you a blank notebook. Why don’t you write these things?” I say.
“Because you’re the writer,” he said.
By the way, when I wrote this essay, my brother still lived in the house. He now rents it to an older lady who likes to grow tomato plants in all available space including along the front porch. And the elderly lady who appears near the end of the essay is still alive. I visited her during a trip back to Virginia. She was very welcoming from her front porch and even took us inside to sit for a bit where her children had to remind her at some point, “Mama, you are 99 not 89.” Her response was “Is that right?” And so it goes. 😉
Words + Images 