Your front porch

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Sketch #2: Waiting is a helpless kind of hope.

When I pictured hope that day I smiled at a particular memory that hurt. Every morning I would kiss him goodbye and watch as he drove off into the sunlight. Each evening I would time dinner so that it was piping hot when he got back.

One night we were running around barefoot in his front porch packing the tent and our luggage into his mini van when I stepped fully onto a nail. He freaked out, scolded me for not wearing shoes, lost his temper at our roommate’s kids, trying to find the first aid box. His anxiety relieved all the pain I felt in the ball of my foot.

What do you think of when you see your front porch?

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