There’s nothing special about it at all. Sometimes it squeaks. Sometimes it houses wasps and hornets. Several times It’s even crashed to the porch with me on it! Yet, the old, country swing, with its rusty chains and layers of paint, holds a treasure chest of memories. It’s where I take my morning coffee, listen to the birds, and meditate. It’s where I talk to God, laugh and cry, and reminisce. But, my fondest memories are swinging with my grandchildren, talking and laughing, imagining ourselves soaring high above the clouds on Mrs. Eagle’s feathered back. At nightfall we’d gaze into the starry sky, listen to the frogs, and watch fireflies. When I’d finally oblige them with a scary story, they’d jump off the swing and scurry into the house.
My oldest grandchild, Brandon, now twenty-two, wrote me this beautiful poem, On the Front Porch, Swingin’. I thank God for reminding me how important it is to spend time with my grandchildren, and how fast they grow up. The only thing I regret is that I can’t do it all over again.
On the Front Porch, Swingin’
As the sky starts dropping liquid beats,
The door, it creaks, and opens to the world.
Grandma’s rejoicing as Grandson’s voicing,
“Let’s go out and listen for a bit,
Before it quits. I hear it dyin’ down,”
The boy, he beckons.
“You’re right, I reckon.”
Cause one of these days Grandson’s gonna be a man,
So she’s gotta cherish moments while she still can.
Taking hold of the boy’s hand,
the two go out together on the front porch, swingin’.
“Dee Dee, can you tell me a story? Dee Dee, will you rub my back?”
And, “Dee Dee can you breathe real easy
while I lay my head on your lap?”
“Brandon, can you hear my heart singin’
In the midst of this thunderstorm show’r?”
Together on the front porch, swingin’.
“Let’s stay for another hour.”