She was eleven again. Her hair was long and fine and a free-of-chemical-color-additions mousy brown. She wore it in a lazy ponytail, whisps of hair coming out at the crown and catching her eyelashes. She sat curled up in a rocking chair on the porch, her white-and-blue polka-dot dress contrasting her earthy tanned skin, rough from too many days in noon-high summer sun. She pulled her spindly brown legs up to her chest and curled her arms around her shins, resting her head on her arm while situating her dress around her to preserve her modesty. She sat very still and watched and listened for the earth to move around her.
She felt small and unnoticed in her chair on the giant, covered wrap-around porch. If it weren't for her nut-brown skin and blue polka-dots, she would have faded into the white railings and posts and clapboard surrounding her. She felt like just another of the many potted plants and ornamental trees scattered along the porch: sedentary, expectant, accesory. This was her unexpected hiding place. She could sit here all day, in full view, and escape the notice of the many people coming and going--their heavy footsteps echoing across the boards of the porch as they continually ascended and descended the steps all day long, their hats in hand--their movements and their business muffled and distorted through the windows and lace curtains that separated them. She knew the ladies would politely ask "Where is Mary Elizabeth?" without wanting any real answer. The men would awkwardly shuffle their feet, unaware she existed.
She liked the porch. It kept her from being savage. Her shy, almost feral antisocial tendencies kept her in trees all day. The porch made her civil.
She looked out across the sprawling lawn and old, heavy trees dutifully extending their arms without wavering. She squinted as the sun commenced its descent, its frappant rose-colored light escaping past the baldachin to hit the wall of windows behind her, bathing her in a glittering reflection--John's sea of glass mingled with fire. She watched calmly while the sun paved everything in amber, cloaking the trees and the clouds and the lawn in a warm glow of kisses. She breathed the fearsome kingdom as the peepers began their greetings.
He came with the peepers. She'd hear the latch on the door and his slow, heavy feet on the porch planks. She imagined his finely-polished brown shoes like her skin against the sterile white. He came and stood beside the open chair next to her, enjoying the peepers. He would reach into his light-colored jacket and remove his pipe and tin, pinching a small amount of tobacco and setting it in the bowl, before returning the tin again. He'd strike a match and flick it away. One puff... two--one to greet the night and another to bid farewell. He'd sit down in the rocking chair, unhooking the button from his jacket so he could sit comfortably. Together they would watch the sun give her last caresses through the trees before winking away.
