An Empty Porch Swing

Dear Friend,

Metal on metal creaked softly in an uneven rhythm as the breeze swayed the porch swing in its evening whisper. I used to watch my Mimi rock there — her toes peeking out from under her dress as she pushed herself back and forth while I played on the floor nearby. I wasn't allowed on the porch swing; it was a rite of passage, adults only, she would say, pointing her finger toward the tire swing hanging from the old oak tree in the yard.

I loved that tire swing — so did half the kids in the neighborhood — but it wasn't the same as the porch swing.

The porch swing was where Mimi's laughter happened. It was where she solved people's problems, made community plans, and organized bake sales. It was where she sipped her morning coffee and served afternoon iced tea to passersby who stopped to say hello. It's where she opened her mail.

I remember watching Mom stretch out on that swing too — one leg slung over the side, pushing herself while she read page after page of a new book.

I mooned over the gentle sway of that porch swing for years, sure each summer would be “the one” when Mimi would finally invite me to sit. And each summer, I was disappointed — until the summer I turned sixteen.

I was perched on a stool at the corner of the porch when she whispered my name. I looked over, expecting her to need something, but her hand patted the space beside her instead. I jumped up like a toddler and sat down before she could change her mind. She began rocking us gently, setting the rhythm. I planted my toes next to hers and joined the flow. We rocked in silence for a few moments before she handed me her glass. Ice clinked as I palmed the condensation-covered glass and brought it to my lips, anticipating the sweetness of her renowned hibiscus tea. As I swallowed, I realized my mistake. “Mimi!” I exclaimed, shocked at the swig of wine I'd just taken. Her eyes crinkled as the laughter bloomed. “Now you've had your first rock and sip of wine at the same time.” I joined her in the merriment and brought the glass to my lips again, sipping slowly this time.

It wasn't until years later that I learned ice isn't usually added to wine — and realized what a sweet quirk of Mimi's it had been.

When Mimi passed away, I couldn't bring myself to sit on the swing. I'd perch on that same childhood stool for hours, studying it instead — tracing each ring of the metal chain that held it in place, following every grain of wood, mentally running my hand over the soft, worn blanket she always kept tossed on back. The sound of the rocking filled me with an ache. My longing to sit on the porch swing had become a longing to see my Mimi again.

I was tasked with going through the house — deciding what the family should keep, what should be sold, what should be given away. She'd named me for the job herself, in a will as concise as she was. I worked through the house tirelessly, reliving memories, crying, uncovering heirlooms I'd never laid eyes on — until I found her journals.

It took a few more weeks before I could bring myself to open them. But when I finally did, I knew there was only one place I should be. Gathering five of them in my arms, I went out to the porch. It took several fortifying breaths before I could lower myself into the swing. I fought back tears through half of the first journal, the most recent one. But as I read on — staying put by sheer willpower — I began to relax into her words. By the second journal, I'd sprawled out, one leg thrown over the side, rocking myself back and forth just as my mother used to. I even paused to snap a picture of myself and send it to Mom before reading on. I barely noticed the hours pass, until the fireflies woke around me.

It wasn't until the last journal — the earliest one — that I found something that changed everything. She'd started writing it not long after she and Papi bought the house. Papi had surprised her by building and hanging the porch swing, and she wrote about it in great detail, then added: "A porch swing doesn't rock itself. Sometimes it takes somebody sitting down beside you, reminding you of the rhythm — a heart works the same way. Leave either one empty for too long, and it forgets how to move."

This swing is an ordinary thing, a fixture now — it's always just been, as long as I can remember. As a child, I saw it clearly for what it was. Somewhere in the years since — between that first accidental sip of wine and now — I lost sight of it. Maybe I never truly understood it, not in the way that matters.

But I do now. Reading her journals on the swing I'd left empty for too long has changed that.

Her words made me realize I couldn't leave it empty any longer. I couldn't let someone else claim it. It needed to stay in the family — but more than that, I came to believe the task she'd left me, going through her things, was her way of telling me this porch swing needed to stay with me, and I with it. I'll not leave it again. I’ll be staying here now, for good. The legacy of this ordinary porch swing needs to continue, and I'll be the one rocking here, just as she did, for years to come.

What's something ordinary that you've been overlooking, my friend? Maybe it's time to slow down long enough to ask why you lost sight of it in the first place.

Until next time,

—A Friend from Magnolia Isle