Porch Swing Hugs: A Short Story

A couple of months ago, I participated in The Symphony of Words writing contest that you may have seen around the blogosphere. I didn't winy any prizes, but I was one of the four honorable mentions with my story, Porch Swing Hugs!

And it just occurred to me that the story would probably make a good blog post. ;)

Before you read the story . . .

The prompts for the contest were songs—thus the contest title, Symphony of Words. I was assigned the song Where Rainbows Never Die by the SteelDrivers, and you might want to listen to the song before reading my story. Otherwise my story probably won't make sense. Just sayin'.

And now, my story, Porch Swing Hugs:

I walked by his house every day on the way to and from high school. And every day, he sat on his porch, watching the world go by with an expressionless face. Thin, wasted legs dangling from his porch swing. Arthritic hands sitting idle in his lap. Wisps of white hair blowing into his face with the slightest breeze.

Every day I passed him, every day he stared at me and I stared back. But then again, sometimes, he didn’t stare at me. It’s like . . . it’s like he stared right through me, to something only he could see. It gave me the creeps.

But that morning . . . that one morning I caught a glimpse of something that caused my breath to catch in my throat.

He was crying.

He stared at me, same as always. But then . . . then a lone tear made a wet, crooked track down his cheek.

One lonely tear.

There are no words for someone to let you know how they feel as adequate as a single tear.

And I felt ashamed.

Ashamed for all the times I stared at him without a word. For my silence. So on my way home that day, I paused in front of his house. We stared at each other for a long moment, his unblinking eyes never leaving my own. And then . . . then I did something that shocked us both.

Without a word, I marched up his porch steps, knelt beside him, and wrapped my arms around his shoulders. No words were necessary. I stood and clattered down the steps again. As I made my way down the sidewalk, I threw one glance back over my shoulder. The tear made its mark down his cheek once more.

But this time, I didn’t feel ashamed.

***

For the next three weeks, we fell into a routine—or, at least, I did. We stared at each other as I walked to school, and then on my way back I rushed up his wooden porch steps, gave him a hug, and continued down the sidewalk without a word. He never moved, just stared at me with wide eyes, and sometimes I wondered if hugging him was such a good idea, after all. But then, each time I wrapped my arms around his frail body, I saw his fingers twitch.

And I knew, even without words, that my touch meant something to this nameless old man.

I don’t know how long we went on like this; life flew by in a blur. But what I do remember is that the autumn months quickly turned chilly, and even as I rushed to school hunched over by cold winds that penetrated my jacket, he still sat in the same place, seemingly immune to the bitter cold that deepened with each day.

And each day, I think we were both warmed a little by the warmth of my embrace—me included, even if it was never returned.

As the days grew colder and colder, my mom begged me to drive to school, or to at least let her drive me. And I gave in—for a couple of days. But staring at him from the window of a car did something inside me that caught me off guard.

It made my heart ache.

So I walked again. Rain, sleet, snow . . . I walked, and he was always there on his porch, sometimes bundled beyond recognition by a scarf and bulky coat. But I still gave him a hug. And gradually, my world brightened. I felt as if I had a purpose again, a purpose of more than having the cutest blouse at school.

Because somehow, the more I poured myself out to the unnamed man on the porch, the more I had in me to pour.

And then . . . and then school was cancelled on an overcast, snowy morning. I sat on my bed, staring out the window to the blinding whiteness. The sounds of children taking advantage of the school-free day drifted to my ears.

I had no reason to go. It was warm in my house. I cradled a mug of hot cocoa between my hands and stared at my zebra-print quilt. My fuzzy gray socks cocooned my toes in comfort.

I didn’t have any reason to go.

I poured my drink into a thermos, bundled up, and walked out the door. Never mind that it was a snow day. 

I had a purpose to fulfill, snow or no snow.

***

He still sat on the porch, staring dismally into the distance at something only he could see. But when he spotted me approaching, an almost-imperceptible change came upon him. To a casual observer, he simply stared at me like I did at him.

But I saw the spark that entered his eyes.

I gave him my customary hug, then turned to walk back home. But that didn’t seem right.

I was here for a purpose, wasn’t I?

I spun on my heel to face him again and marched back up the steps to settle onto the porch swing next to him.

“I’m Jenae.” The words slipped out quietly to dissipate into the air and be carried away on the frigid breeze that threatened to freeze my nose off. I began to shiver, my teeth started to chatter, as I awaited his response.

But none came.

So I sat with him for another five minutes, then stood and walked home.

***

School was cancelled again the next day. And again I braved the ice and snow to go sit with the old man on his porch. Not sure what to say again, I simply sat in silence and attempted to subtly keep myself warm. I’d worn an extra sweater underneath my coat, but somehow the biting, numbing chill crept through and threatened to freeze the marrow in my bones.

I was about to stand and leave when he finally broke the silence.

“Chester.” The voice matched his features—weak, wobbly. Quiet. Shy. I’m not being rude or disrespectful; it’s just the way it was. And I think he knew it.

The moment seemed almost magical; he actually spoke. I paused, unsure of whether to reply or not. Then, hesitantly, I took his frail hand in my own and have it a gentle shake.

“Nice to meet you, Chester.” I offered a slight smile. “Or, rather, nice to finally know your name.”

A spark appeared in his eyes, and he gripped my hand in a surprisingly strong grasp.

“Does this mean we’re actually going to carry on conversation?” I raised an eyebrow and tilted my head.

For the first time since I first saw him, the ghost of a smile appeared, tilting the corners of his mouth upward. He simply stared at me with a look akin to my little brother when he’s got a plan up his sleeve. But he didn’t say anything, and I walked home, winter boots crunching in the snow.

***

The next weeks were filled with more interaction than ever before. I greeted him with a cheery hug and a “Hello, Chester!” while he just smiled and clasped my hand. And more often than not, I sat next to him for a good half hour after school, sometimes talking, sometimes silent.

And then he surprised me. 

He took a deep breath of the fresh late-winter air, not seeming to mind the nip that still clung to the breeze, letting it out in a long sigh. “Cotton.”

I blinked. “Excuse me?”

He nodded to the houses across the street. “There’s cotton over there. Somewhere.”

I frowned and massaged a spot on my thigh. Was the cold getting to him? Was he loopy?

“These legs aren’t what they used to be.” He rambles on, randomly changing the subject. I blinked in confusion, but didn’t interrupt him. The words, though baffling, pulled at me, as if beckoning for me to join them in their quest, whatever that may be.

His fingers became restless, and they tapped the armrest of the swing in an uneven rhythm. “I used to run in the cotton. I’d run for miles, never . . . never get tired. And then I’d run through the swamp. Bathe in the mud . . . ” His voice trailed off.

I opened and closed my mouth several times, unsure of what to say. And then I didn’t have to say anything.

“I’m old. These legs, they don’t work like they used to.” He motioned to his lap with his bony hands. “Young people like you . . . they don’t care. I’m just an old man. Just an old man . . . ” He stared across the street. “There’s cotton. One of these days”—he wagged a gnarled finger at the horizon—“I’m gonna run through the cotton again. I’m gonna sing Dixie loud as I can, I’m gonna run through the mud again. And when I die, I’ll be clean, clean as that cotton . . . ” He turned his wizened eyes on me. “I’m gonna go over the rainbow someday. And where I’m going . . . I’m gonna lasso that rainbow. I’m gonna take it with me, kick the leprechaun out of the pot of gold, and I’m gonna keep that rainbow. And it’s never going to die.”

“So you grew up in the south,” I murmured,  tilting my head with the realization. After a moment’s hesitation, I decided to play along. “Why won’t the rainbow die?”

His eyes widened. “Noah’s ark. The rainbow is about God’s promises.” He started to giggle. “My Molly, she loved rainbows. I’m gonna lasso that rainbow and take it to her. And it’ll be my promise to her.”

“What are you gonna promise her?”

He gave me a small smile, leaning in close as if about to share a deep secret. “I’m gonna say to that woman, ‘Molly, we’re both dead now, but that’s okay. Because I brought you your rainbow.’ And then I’m gonna pull it out from behind my back, all tied up in a bow, and give it to her like a present. And I’ll tell her that it’s a promise from me to her, that we’ll get old together in heaven, just like here on earth.” He let out a deep, pent-up sigh. “Except better. Because in heaven, that rainbow’s never gonna die.”

***

I got the call that summer. My family had just gotten back from vacation, and I couldn’t wait to talk to Chester about it.

But it turned out that I never would.

His daughter, the one that liked to visit him on Wednesdays, she’s the one that called me. Told me about his funeral. Asked me to say a few words about his last months.

But how does one describe something to people who wouldn’t understand? How would I describe the days we laughed until we cried, we talked about running through cotton that snagged at our clothes? How would I describe the tears that stood in his eyes every time Chester talked about Molly?

I curled up on my bed and sobbed, wondering, how does one describe the feeling, deep down in your soul, when you share a bond with someone like you’ve never had before? Or the imagination that it takes to run through a swamp and bathe in mud while you’re sitting on an old man’s front porch?

There’s no way to describe it. I had no more words to say. Chester and I, we’d said them all. And while I cried my heart out to God, asking why He took Chester, I knew . . . I knew that Chester was okay. He’d finally become clean after bathing in the swamp. 

He was probably dancing with Molly that very moment, and smiling that crooked smile of his.

Because he was finally where rainbows never died.

Go give someone a hug, y'all.