Some evenings slip into your memory quiet as a cat, curl up, and never leave. One of mine took place on Aunt Frances’ front porch, out there near the edge of Roy Webb country where the road narrowed, the cotton fields stretched wide, and the sky hung low enough you felt like you could touch it if you stood on tiptoe.

Aunt Frances had a porch made for livin’. Long boards worn smooth by a hundred summers, a pair of rockers that creaked in perfect rhythm, and a porch swing that had carried more secrets than the Piedmont telephone party line. It was the kind of place the world slowed down for, whether it wanted to or not.

That particular spring evening, the air was soft and smelled of honeysuckle and warm dirt. The peepers had struck up their orchestra early, fiddlin’ away in the ditches like they got paid by the note. Crickets chimed in, keepin’ time. You’d think somebody backstage had handed out sheet music.

Aunt Frances had her apron still on from supper, and she was fannin’ herself with the hand-held Church of God Fan that was never far out of arm’s reach. I was sittin’ on the porch steps, my elbows on my knees, listenin’ to her laugh at somethin’ that was so simple I can’t recall it now. Maybe it was a joke about Preacher Kerr’s new toupee. Maybe it was just the way the dog tried to chase his tail and nearly toppled into the azaleas. It didn’t matter. Her laughter did what laughter ought to do. It lifted the whole night.

There was a light hung above the front door. Not the bright kind that tries too hard, but the old-fashioned bulb that glowed a soft yellow and hummed like it held a story it wasn’t ready to share. Some folks called it a porch light. Aunt Frances always called it her guardian. Said it kept away moths, drunks, and men who were up to no good. Judging by her long life and spotless reputation, I figured the light was doin’ a mighty fine job.

Every few minutes, the whole porch breathed in the slightest breeze, warm at first, then cool enough to make you pull your shoulders in a little. Lightning bugs drifted across the yard like wanderin’ lanterns. One landed right on Aunt Frances’s knee, and she told it she was glad it dropped by, but she wasn’t in a position to host company without callin’ ahead.

The laughter rose and fell. We talked about nothin’ and everything. The weather, the crops, the neighbor’s boy who swore he saw a coyote that “looked him straight in the eye and spoke Latin.” The porch swing rocked. The rockers creaked. The light hummed. It felt like the whole evening was alive and listenin’.

For a moment, I remember sittin’ very still, letting it sink in. The warmth. The sounds. The feelin’ that the world was larger than the fields but smaller than the porch. The truth is that life was complicated everywhere else, but here on Aunt Frances’ porch, it was simple and good and all in one piece.

Aunt Frances caught me starin’ out at the twilight and tapped my shoulder.

“You alright, honey?” she asked.

I nodded.

“I’m just thinkin’.”

She smiled like she had been waitin’ for that answer all night.

“Good. A porch is the right place for thinkin’. But think gentle. Springtime deserves that.”

And I reckon she was right.

Because that evening sank deeper into me than a hundred louder days ever did. No drama. No hurry. No big revelations. Just laughter, music made by insects, a porch swing that never lost its patience, and a porch light hummin’ like it knew the secret to peace but didn’t want to spoil the surprise.

I left that night feelin’ lighter. The way a person feels after a long talk with someone who knows your family, your history, and your heart, and likes you anyway.

And every spring, when the first warm night settles over Alabama, and the crickets tune up their fiddles, I think of Aunt Frances’ porch. I can see her rockin’ chair. I can hear her laugh and smell the honeysuckle. And I can still hear that quiet hum from the porch light, tellin’ me the world, for all its troubles, still holds a few small corners where everything is alright.

Even if only for an evening.

*****

New Yesterdays can be found at: Books-A-Million, Barnes & Noble, and Amazon, as well as your favorite bookshops. The Audiobook is available from Libro.fm, as well as Amazon.