This is my great aunt's porch.  This is a place that calls out to you and whispers, "Come sit here! Relax, rock. . ."  You can't really see the vast blankets of green grass that embrace this porch, or the old oak in the center of the pebbled driveway that marks my grandfather's birthplace.  I can see them, though.  I can easily picture them.  I always close my eyes as I walk up the drive, and I can almost imagine my grandfather, and his sisters arriving in a buggy, and then eventually perhaps an old Model T.
    Nowadays, I manage to content myself to simply rock on the porch and hear the wood planks creak underneath my chair. Eventually, I get up and the chair slams against the farmhouse as I rise to rejoin my aunt in her kitchen.  The battered screen door bangs behind me.