I wrote this short-short story in 2000. It has become more relevant with every passing year, and I think it's time to share it with a wider audience.
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THE FRONT PORCH
by William Ashworth
"Is there any ice cream?" James Randle asked his wife.
"I think there's some vanilla in the freezer," Mary Randle replied. "Why?"
"I thought I'd take a bowl of it out to the front porch."
"Whatever for?"
"Oh – I haven't done that for a long time, and I used to enjoy it. And it looks like a nice night. I bet if you turn the air conditioner off and open the windows, you'll hear crickets. Want to join me?"
"I'm reading." She indicated her book. "And if you think I'm going to turn the a/c off, you're crazy."
"We used to sit out there together. In the porch swing. I thought you liked it."
"That was a long time ago."
"Not so long." He waited for a response, but Mary was buried in her book again, one hand absently twisting a lock of graying hair. After a moment James sighed and went into the kitchen. The ice cream was buried near the back of the freezer, and there were little ice crystals on the outside of the carton. He brushed them off and folded back the lid. There was about a third of a carton left. He put two scoops in a bowl, took a spoon from the dish drainer, and walked back to the living room.
"Sure you won't join me? It looks like a nice night."
"Mmmm." She waved a hand absently in his direction. "Have fun."
He sighed again, opened the front door, and went out onto the porch.
Outside it was a bit warmer than he had expected, but it was pleasant anyway. He settled into the porch swing, which creaked a little as he sat down. A breeze came out of the darkness and ruffled his hair. Crickets sang, and katydids, and there was some sort of high insect buzz he couldn't identify. And fireflies – he'd forgotten there might be fireflies! Their lights made moving winks of brightness in the black yard. The leaves of the big tree at the front corner of the lot rustled in the breeze. A car went by in the street, eerily silent, like a ghost on tires.
When the ice cream was finished he went back inside. Mary looked up from her book. "Did you have a nice time?" she asked.
"It was very pleasant. Just like old times."
"How's the palm doing?"
"Seems to be holding up well. I could hear its leaves rustling." He paused. "I remember when it was maples."
"Maples won't grow as far south as Vermont," she said.
"I know. Maybe we should move to Alaska. I think they still grow up there."
"It would be too far from the grandchildren."
"Right." The grandchildren lived in southern Arkansas, on the coast. At least that was closer than they had lived before sea-level rise had driven them out of New Orleans.
"By the way," said Mary, after a moment, "Happy New Year."
"Is it New Year's Eve?" he asked, surprised. "I'd lost track."
"We used to go to parties on New Year's Eve," Mary said. "Through the snow."
"Snow," he repeated, dreamily.
"What's the temperature on the porch?"
"Probably in the low eighties. You really should go sit out there for a while. Summer's no good for it any more." Summers were no longer good for anything but enduring.
"Maybe tomorrow," she said. She turned back to her book. The air conditioner hummed. James went to the bathroom sink, dampened a washcloth, and wiped the sweat from his neck. There were distant sounds of New Year's celebrations. He thought, dreamily and a little wistfully, of snow and maples.
Copyright ©2000 by William Ashworth