The Porch Chair

The Porch Chair

In my family, as cliché, as it may seem, growing up- the porch was a place where we often convened to sit and chat about the day, complain about how unfair the math test was, and to laugh at bad jokes as we watched our basset hound Dixie and our lab Zack wrestle in the yard. The porch was where my mom always sat to unwind, drink her coffee, and (now I can understand) take a breath without someone asking something of her.  This didn’t mean, of course, we didn’t demand her attention to judge a few cartwheel contests or running races my sister and I used to compete in on the front yard.  She was a good sport, and always watched… but she never did pick a winner.  She always called it a tie.

When my parents sold their house on Kruse Road, they moved to a home on a lake that had a very small front porch, but for what that porch lacked, was quickly made up for on the back deck overlooking Lake Cedar Meadow.  It was a view like no other and so my mom gladly switched her front porch habit with a new back deck one, and could often be found sitting out on the high chairs, looking out at the lake.  I can still see her sitting on the stairs and watching the grandkids swim, in one of her yellow and white striped shirts and big beautiful smile across her face.

And yet, despite the summers filled with cookouts and boating and lake life, the call from back home to a gorgeous country road filled with conservation land, was too tempting to resist and my parents once again moved to Hubbardston.  This time, they would build a gorgeous one-story living home, much of it with their own hands.  When it was being built, you would often pull up and see my mom and dad outside measuring boards, staining wood, cutting trim or one of the other thousand things you do when your building a home.  

My mom was a very hands on gal- she was strong and capable and so much of my work ethic comes from watching her never take short cuts.  She took pride in working hard. She was also incredibly humble and about as low maintenance as a pulled together woman could be.  So I was a little surprised when she started telling me about the porch they were putting on the house.  This was going to be her forever home and so she was demanding the wrap around farmers porch she had always wanted her whole life.   I’m pretty sure my dad said the porch is more square footage than the entire inside of their house! This was one thing she wasn’t going to budge on.

Pulling up to my parents driveway, you would nine time out of ten find my mom sitting on the porch in her chair.  My parents had a really beautiful set of Adirondack chairs at the lake that they had held onto. These chairs became permanent fixtures on the front porch.  Once again, we had our place where family would congregate and chat.  During family parties we would often have several people sitting in front of mom in her chair- and on the grass in front of the porch.  We would all be laughing and talking and watching the kids fly by on the golf cart my mom had wished they never bought after she saw how fast all her grandkids drove it. She would see them fly by and yell out “Slow down or it’s getting put away” and then come into the house and say defeated “I hate that thing”. *Their may or may not have been an f word thrown in there.

If my mom wasn’t on her front porch, you may also find her on the back porch, watching the sun set, a brightly orange haze of light in the distance slowly, so slowly, disappearing out of site.  We would sit and laugh, and eat snacks and have wine or tea and gossip. So many memories I have of her are on her porch, it’s probably why her chair seems sacred to me now.  Like a spot where I can almost still see her sitting and smiling at me, or watching her dog Beau run around as she calls him a jerk.  The porch chair seems like, well I guess it seems like the place where I feel the closest to her.  And so that has made it one of the hardest places for me to be near.

The porch chair where she laughed and waved at cars going by.  The porch chair she held all her grandkids in.  The porch chair where she waved hello, or goodbye, as long as she could see the taillights of our cars.  The porch chair where she sat in the morning and listened to the birds.  The porch chair where she celebrated birthdays, anniversaries, wins, and losses. The porch chair she sat in, surrounded by her other two children and husband- as I drove up speeding and threw my car in park and ran up to wrap my arms around her after my dad told me over the phone the worst news I have ever heard my entire life.  The porch chair she sat in her last days of life.  Despite the pain she was in, she still would stand up and walk out to the porch, and sit quietly.

In the days leading up to mothers day, the first without my mom, I was pretty lost.  I couldn’t sit with my thoughts any more, and often found myself in tears during random times – walking to my car, after talking to a coworker.  No rhyme or reason, just a lot of random pain.  As the day approached, I equally looked forward to and dreaded celebrating her. On mothers day, I found myself standing on the front porch and lingering my gaze on her chair, wondering why things had to be this way.  I pictured her face and her smile and I choked back tears and walked inside. Her empty chair was too much to look at and so I tried to avoid it most of the evening.

But then, as I got ready to leave with my daughter, out of nowhere decided to face the porch chair. Her chair. So much of my pain over the last few months has been dealt with by distractions.  And while that works for a little while, ultimately it never really fixes anything. So, on my way to leave, I turned and faced the empty chair.  I took my phone out and I snapped a pic of it.  I said under my breath “I know you’re here mom”. And for some reason I always say “I hope you’re okay”.  I took a deep breath and I told her how much I loved her, waved at my family still there by the fire, and got in the car to drive away, but not before I glanced back in the rearview mirror and looked at her chair one last time.  I flashed back to 1,000 hello’s and goodbyes and realize 1 million wouldn’t have been enough.  Not with a mom and a best friend like her.  

And so, I get it. The pain, it was always going to come.  The agony, despair, the gaping hole where she once was, will never go away… we just grow stronger to accommodate the ache.  And while I may be angry and upset and sometimes sad and lost… it’s ok because it’s supposed to go that way, to build us up to the humans who now have not just the strength to keep going and figuring shit out, but also the compassion and courage to be there for other people who will be walking this path of grief along side us.  No one can get it, until they get it.  Again, that’s the way it’s supposed to be. The empty porch chair, I’m not going to lie, it punches me in the gut, but it also gives me a chance to remember my mom- who she was and what she meant to me.  I know that someday, I’ll remember those moments with less wince and more smile, and until that day, I’ll keep trying.  

This is how we go through it.  Even if we feel like maybe we aren’t ready yet…  One empty porch chair at a time.  

Love, Nikki