Porch Dreams

The rocking chair creaked gently beneath his weight. The wood, worn smooth by decades of use, matched the lines of his frame as perfectly as the porch did the house he built with his own hands.

George Weller sat quietly, hands folded over a cane that rested across his lap. His back was a little more hunched than last spring. His hair—what little was left—had gone from gray to wisps of white. He wore the same suspenders he had on the day of his wedding, though he had let out the waist more than once over the years.

In front of him, a handful of toddlers stumbled through the patchy backyard grass, shrieking joyfully, heads oversized, feet clumsy. One fell face-first into the clover and laughed like it was the best joke in the world. George chuckled.

"Great-great-grandkids," he murmured. "Would you look at that."

The afternoon sun lay thick across the porch. Dust floated in the warm light like sleepy fireflies. A breeze carried the scent of cut grass, grill smoke, and a hint of honeysuckle. George closed his eyes for a moment and let it all settle in his chest.

It was quiet now, except for the children. A good quiet. The kind he hadn't known much of as a young man. Not during the war. Not with babies crying and milk bills due. Not when his wife’s cough kept him up nights. And certainly not when she died last fall, peacefully, but far too suddenly for his liking.

Martha.

She was never far. Not in thought, and not in spirit. Sometimes, when the house creaked just so, he imagined her footsteps, heard her humming as she folded laundry or poked the fire.

Eighty years.

Married at seventeen. Right before he shipped out.

"Wait for me," he’d said, clutching her hand so hard she winced.

"I’ll be right here," she promised.

And she was.

Through the war. Through the lean years. Through three kids, six moves, one house fire, a bout of scarlet fever, and the Great Switch to Decaf.

He smiled. That was 1987. Martha had declared it a new era and tossed the percolator like a funeral. Switched to herbal tea by 1990. George missed real coffee ever since.

Still, it had been a good life.

But sitting there, as the breeze stirred the edges of the crocheted afghan over his knees, George couldn’t help but wonder:

"I blinked... and it was over. Was it all just a dream?"

His mind wandered.

He saw her clearly, in that cherry red sundress from the summer of '48. Her hair tucked back with a plastic comb, her laugh bouncing off the walls of the picnic shelter at Beasley Park.

She had been dancing with their youngest, Lucy, then only four. Spinning her in circles, both of them barefoot in the grass. George had pretended not to watch. But he had watched.

Then, another flash—the moment in 1965 when she held their first grandchild. Her eyes wide with wonder, like she was seeing something sacred. Which she was.

The memories came faster now.

Her hollering when he tried to fix the dryer with duct tape and a butter knife.

Her soft hum as she clipped coupons at the kitchen table.

The sound of her sneeze—always three in a row, dainty little explosions.

How had it all passed so quickly?

He remembered waking up beside her one morning and saying, "You know what? We might be getting old."

She had rolled over, kissed his nose, and said, "Speak for yourself."

He could almost feel her hand in his. Cool, soft, familiar.

Was it a dream?

Or had he dreamed the hard years?

The arguments over bills. The nights they went to bed angry. The phone call when their son totaled the car. The silence after the doctor said the word terminal.

It had all been so full.

Now it was so still.

And yet, full in its own quiet way.

A ball rolled onto the porch, bumping softly against the rocking chair. George leaned forward and picked it up. A tiny girl with a halo of frizzy curls toddled toward him.

"Ball!" she squeaked, hands outstretched.

George smiled and handed it to her.

"Careful now. Don’t trip over your own feet."

She giggled and waddled away.

He sighed.

This was the miracle. That life carried on. That something he and Martha began as teenagers, clinging to one another before the world tore itself apart, had grown and rippled and reproduced into these squealing, smiling little people.

He watched them. A boy pulled a wagon full of stuffed animals. Two others were poking a mound of dirt with sticks. One girl had a crown made of dandelions.

He remembered making those crowns with Martha on a lazy June afternoon. She'd placed one on his head, declaring him “King of Clover,” then promptly stolen a kiss. He remembered pretending to grumble, and then pulling her into the grass with him.

What a life.

And what a love.

He watched a young couple emerge from the house—his great-granddaughter, holding a toddler on one hip. Her partner carried a tray of lemonade.

“Would you like some, Grandpa George?” she called.

He nodded. “Yes, please.”

She brought it to him and gently placed the cup in his hand. He noticed how careful she was, how kind. He took a sip. The lemonade was cold and tart. Perfect.

“Thank you, sweetheart.”

“Of course,” she said, smiling. “We love having you here.”

He watched her return to her family. She had Martha’s eyes. He hadn’t noticed before. The same almond shape. The same warmth when she smiled.

The chair creaked again as he rocked.

George watched as clouds shifted in the sky, as a bird landed on the porch railing, eyeing him curiously.

He looked up and whispered, “I miss you.”

The bird flitted away.

He leaned back and closed his eyes.

He could feel the sun on his face. He imagined her again. Not the young girl in the red dress. No, this time she was older, her hair silver, her hands lined with age, and still—the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen.

She was waiting.

And she would wait until he was ready.

George opened his eyes and looked out at the children again. One was trying to teach the others a silly dance. Another had fallen asleep on a blanket in the shade.

He rocked.

Breathed.

Smiled.

"Maybe it was all a dream," he said to no one in particular.

"If it was... it was the best one I could’ve asked for."

And the sun dipped lower on the horizon, as the porch and the house and the man in the chair glowed gold in the light of another perfect day.