I’ve been looking after a friend’s place while she’s away. Every other day I water one of her trees. While I wait for the water to seep into the parched earth, I sit on her porch. I bring the same magazine, day after day, and re-read it from cover to cover. (I’m afraid of changing magazines, because I love this one that I’ve been reading, and it’s now tied so closely with the magical experience of sitting on my friend’s porch that I’m afraid of jinxing things by changing even one element.)
I appreciate porches. And good magazines. And perfect summer evenings.