A Piedmont Porchlight Story

Somewhere around five o’clock this mornin’, while the rest of Piedmont was still asleep, summer slipped out the back door.

There wasn’t no announcement. No brass band. No official proclamation from City Hall. It simply packed up its humidity, gathered the last of the katydids, and wandered off toward somewhere else. I knew it the minute I stepped onto my front porch.

The coffee was hot enough to fog my glasses, but for the first time in months, the air wasn’t tryin’ to kill me. Now, don’t misunderstand.

By two o’clock this afternoon it’ll probably be ninety-two degrees again, and you’ll sweat through your drawers just walkin’ to the mailbox. Alabama ain’t through with us yet.

But the mornin’… The mornin’ had changed. You can always tell. The light falls different somehow. The birds sound like they’re in less of a hurry. Even the old magnolia out front seems to quit pantin’.

I wandered over to the Coffee Cup, same as I do most mornings, and before I’d even reached the corner, I noticed ol’ Curtis Pope. Long sleeves. Now, Curtis ain’t the sort to make a fashion statement. If he’s wearin’ long sleeves before breakfast, it’s because the weather finally gave him permission.

When I got inside, there was Mrs. Landry sittin’ by the window. Sweater. Not because she needed one all that bad. Because she’d been waitin’ six months to wear it again.

Hattie was pourin’ coffee faster than folks could drink it, and every other conversation sounded about the same. “Sure does feel nice.”

“Might even sleep with the windows open tonight.”

“Reckon fall’s finally comin’.”

Nobody argued. You don’t argue with the first cool mornin’. It’s one of God’s smaller miracles. The funny thing is, seasons never ask whether we’re ready. Spring don’t send you a postcard. Summer don’t knock. Autumn don’t call ahead to make sure you’ve finished whatever you meant to do before another year slips by.

They just… arrive.

One day you’re complainin’ because the tomatoes ain’t ripe enough. The next day you’re wonderin’ where all the lightning bugs went. Seems like only yesterday the young’uns were ridin’ bicycles until dark.

Now school buses are back on the roads, and somebody’s already got Halloween decorations stacked in the hardware store. I swear they skipped Labor Day entirely. Maybe life does that, too. You think you’ve got all the time in the world.

You’ll make that phone call next week. Take that trip next spring. Plant that garden when things settle down. Tell somebody you love ’em tomorrow.

Then one cool mornin’ you look up from your coffee, and somehow tomorrow has turned into twenty years ago. I saw that more times than I can count at Magnolia Mortuary. Families would stand together after a service and say the very same things.

“I wish we’d visited more.”

“I kept meanin’ to stop by.”

“I thought there’d be time.”

There never seems to be as much time as we imagine. Maybe that’s why I like the first cool mornin’ so much. It reminds me to pay attention. To notice the smell of fresh coffee. The sound of somebody laughin’ two booths over.

The way sunlight catches the steam risin’ off a cup before breakfast. Those little things don’t seem important while they’re happenin’. Later on, they’re almost everything.

As I left the Coffee Cup, Curtis followed me onto the sidewalk. He looked up at the sky, shoved both hands in his pockets, and smiled that little smile of his. “Reckon summer finally let go.”

I nodded. “I believe it did.”

Neither one of us said another word. There wasn’t anything left to say. Some changes don’t need explainin’. They just ask us to notice them before they quietly become memories.