The Porch

Annabella Conner sat with knees drawn up to her chest on that old porch, sagging and beat up from years gone by. The same porch she must've painted a hundred times over with that thick, creamy white stale-smelling paint; the same porch that she used to sit on with her brother during those hot summer afternoons, sipping bitter lemonade made from stolen lemons. She wanted those days back, so very badly; she wanted to spend hours in beautiful, perfect silence on that porch. She wanted a way to fix her life that had spiraled down and down, out of her control, leaving her abandoned and dilapidated, just like the porch. She wanted nothing more than to sit on that old porch for an eternity, wishing her problems away.

So she did.

Every morning, the golden rays from the sunrise peeked over the shallow, rolling hills of corn and soybean, dripping over her tired, delicate features like warm honey. There she sat, like she used to, staring into the distance. She was searching for something, anything, that could make her feel like she wasn't all paint-chipped and peeling inside, just like the porch.

Some say that wishing does you nothing, that one must take matters into their own hands. Others say that you should be careful what you wish for. Annabella knew, deep down, at the bottom of the most painful place in her heart that wishing would do absolutely nothing.

So she stopped wishing.

She stopped wishing that she could go back to those days when she used to go to that old-fashioned ice cream place with her brother, sitting under the shady oak trees in those tiny yellow chairs. Her brother always ordering exactly two-and-a-half scoops of the world's best strawberry ice cream in a glistening chocolate-dipped waffle cone. She stopped remembering those times they had gone to the small corner grocery store every week, always making sure to sneak a handful of those hard little strawberry candies with the gooey center, wrapped tightly in shiny plastic. She stopped thinking about him, about the moments they shared. She stopped wishing he would come back. Once she had stopped wishing, she couldn't bring herself to do anything more than relive what she had already experienced; because without hope, there is no point in truly living.

One still, sunny afternoon, as the gnats flitted around the overgrown weeds that spilled onto the porch, Annabella noticed something. Or rather, someone. Someone that, unbeknownst to her, was just as beaten up and broken inside. He was walking down the road to that old house. Towards the old porch. Towards her. She couldn't will herself to stand up, to walk towards the man with the hesitant yet brisk step. She couldn't bring herself out of the trance she had been in for what seemed like an endless amount of time, spending hours inside her mind, reliving every last memory, every last second she had spent with her brother. Yet there he was, this strange man, walking towards her. He looked down as he walked, ashamed. He was trying to hide his fractured heart, which had been cracked and splintered, time and time again.

Some people hole up in their minds to cope, not wanting to let go of those dear, beautiful memories they hold on to so tightly. Others try and hide it, bottling it up until the bottle itself explodes into a million pieces of glass. Painful little pieces of glass, infused with memories. Painful pieces that lodge themselves in your heart, cutting deeper and deeper. But there is a difference between these two worn and damaged hearts. This man had hope. He had hope that someone could fix him, could help him. Annabella had no hope, no faith that her heart could ever come back to life.

This odd man that now stood on Annabella's porch was silent. Silent because he had spent an eternity trying to pull out all those little pieces of glass by himself. Reliving each bittersweet memory as he tried to put the bottle back together. Silent because he knew he had met another person just as broken as himself. Someone that could help him pull the pieces out. Someone that understood the pain of a broken bottle.

But that was where he was wrong.

Annabella's bottle had never been shattered. In fact, Annabella never had a bottle. She once had a magnificent, whole heart that had never been hurt. Vibrant and colorful like a tulip that had just bloomed. Now, her heart was wilted, a flower neglected and abandoned, in need of water, of hope, of life. She looked into the eyes of this stranger, standing on the porch, a few feet away from her. They looked at each other for an endless amount of time, searching for understanding, searching for life like they once knew.

The man abruptly sucked in a breath and let out a quiet, shallow sigh. Annabella quickly looked down at the rotted floorboards of the porch, unsure of what to say. The man extended his hand, offering a thin smile with a nervous look in his dark umber eyes. Annabella reached for his hand as she met his eyes with her own. She smiled. The man began to lead her down the road, the same road that Annabella had walked a hundred times, now overgrown with thick grass and delicate, white daisies. But none of those times compared to the odd feeling she had this time. This time, she felt a sense of hope blooming within her. She wasn’t sure why she had followed this man. This man she had never seen before but somehow had known her whole life. They walked in silence. The beautiful, perfect, whole, understanding, silence Annabella always wished she could experience again. He led her past the corner grocery store, past all of the shops with old paint and faded store signs, to the old-fashioned ice cream place. He still held her hand, led her to those faded yellow chairs that she knew so well. They sat. It was then that Annabella knew she would spend the rest of her life with this man, helping him heal his heart and him helping heal her heart. 

Every day after that, at precisely eight forty-five every morning, he would walk up the road, to the old porch, to her. He would hold her hand as they walked to the ice-cream shop, where she shared a cool, smooth strawberry cone dipped in chocolate with this man she knew could bring her hope, bring her heart back to life. Every minute they spent together pulled a fragment of glass from the man's heart. But she didn't help him rebuild the bottle. She taught him to love the memories he had, to hold on to them, to collect them. She taught him that memories can't be blocked or erased, that they are precious, even if they are painful. He gave her life, taught her to live with hope instead of living in the past. He taught her to live instead of re-live. 

He gave her a future. She gave him his past.