Porch

She could still remember.

Hours of board games at the picnic table. A funeral service for the bumble bee which was still buried in the back yard. Dad coaching her through her first ice cream cone. Weeks of confinement to cushioned porch chairs in a cast after jumping off the top bunk and not defying gravity.

The floorboards still showed signs of wear from roller-skating, and they still creaked in the same places, though perhaps a little louder.

The screen door left a clear line of smell to the kitchen.
That's right. Pot roast.

It was good to be home.