The front porch

S: We can't afford to spend anymore money this month.
M: Okay. I'm sorry I bought that fancy peanut butter.

S: We need to go to Pentagon City to buy these rocking chairs for (insert amount).
M: Okay. I guess we do need rocking chairs.

S: Maybe we can stop by Ikea and buy some new porch furniture today.
M: How is this not spending money?
S: You did buy those flowers...

Naturally, after the purse strings were pulled tight and then loosened immediately for purchases that S deemed entirely necessary I was a bit miffed. However, all it took was one night sitting out on our freshly painted porch, looking over the green space to the left of our house with the sun fading for me to be convinced that rocking chairs were a good idea.

Reflections from people that I know.

L: Do I even want to ask? (In reference to my work mug smelling horrific).
M: Well, after I work out I usually mix some protein in my water and drink it.
L: (Looking at me very sincerely) Your life and mine are very different. Note: This was said in the sort of way that made it clear that my life was the outlier. It was also quite funny.

This evening I sat down on the front porch to read the final pages of a great book. The air was warm, though not yet viscous, the wind was light and variable. The white rocking chairs were spaced evenly, managing to connote a palpable sense of relaxation. I sat down and began reading beneath the swath of light created by our unencumbered front porch bulb. As I sat, turning the pages, thoughtfully, slowly, I noticed a few bugs crawling around on the ground. And then, like Godzilla rising in some Japanese dream of destruction, I became aware that the bugs numbered in the thousands. And, as I soon learned, they were incapable of flying in a straight direction. Are bugs drunk this time of the year? They commenced flying into the pages of my book or onto my arm, sitting dully, until I ended their brief life with a swipe of my hand. Thank god I'm not a Janeist.

After battling the bugs for about seven pages I decided to retire to the comfort of my living room. I have given up the front porch to the bugs of summer. I have noticed, from the comfort of the couch, that the front porch is best viewed from inside. That from there, you can look at the two solitary white rocking chairs and imagine the slow passage of time, the matching set of imprints that will be rolled into the concrete. From the living room you can create an entire life for those rocking chairs which has nothing to do with actually sitting in that rocking chair as giant bugs fly dumbly into your window and then lie on their backs, dead on the sill. You realize that perhaps life is better when viewed through a window, a book open on your lap, and the occasional tap of an insect ending its life.

Girl: (Reflecting on the incredible increase in number of people as the weather has gotten better on the lawns of the college campus/the decreasing ratio of clothes to skin.) You just have to ask yourself? Where the heck were all these people all winter? And when did they get so skanky?

M: That's a great quote.

The moral to the story is that front porches are like most everything else in life, good for a fleeting amount of time until one begins to realize the inherent difficulties in rocking away the warm spring nights. And one is left looking down at the smear of a bug dotting page 326 and reflecting on his own brief life, how quickly things changed, from birth to death in a matter of days. How, to that small bug, perhaps it was like eighty years, spent buzzing about in oceans of light, from an unwavering sun, until he lost interest, and splattered himself on a page full of dark words.