We passed this house on Saturday, in an older part of a nearby town. And while I realize its closets are probably small, and the bathrooms lack garden tubs, and the pantry could not fit a twin bed like ours can, and the hardwood floors probably squeak–I sure do covet that double-tiered wraparound porch. It almost demands that one saunter out to it, master of all you survey. What a joy to be headmistress of all you survey!
Sitting out there, sipping lemonade, thumbing through Southern Living magazines, waving to my neighbors–sounds peaceful. I would turn my ear to the melody of the ice cream truck, and it would stop just shy of my property, and children would race to catch it. They would pay $4 for a fudge bomb, and that would put me on edge. Perhaps I would rise from my rocker and raise my shaking cane at the man and his avarice. I would curse him and his dairy products. He would ignore me because I am old, and old people are invisible.
Wait, this isn’t turning out how I had hoped it would.