The porch in the afternoon
This is a love story. The characters, Will and Anabeth, are in their late 70s. It is a fictional piece based on true characters – my Houston friend’s mom and dad. The mother had been diagnosed as having “hardening of the arteries.” Yet her forgetfulness and loss of reality continued to advance. Finally, a specialist at Baylor School of Medicine in the Medical Center found, after a battery of tests, its true name and its consequences. Alzheimer’s Disease. We’d never heard of it before then.
When the mother died in 1981, I wrote this story for my friend. It appeared in my first book but has never been published in a newspaper. Before you write to question me, I wrote the story long before Nicholas Sparks wrote “The Notebook” in 1992. This is Part I and will be concluded in my next column.
The Porch in the Afternoon. I carry her to the front porch, wrapped in the striped afghan she always wants. Carefully, I place her in the rocking chair next to mine and tuck the afghan around her knees. This is our pattern each afternoon after we wake from our naps. We go to the porch and usually sit in silence as we watch the sun making its descent toward the horizon.
We sit side by side, just as we have traveled our life together for the past 56 years of marriage. We sit separately but more together than two people could ever be. It is barely after four, yet I notice the shadow of the oak tree has reached the edge of the road and I mention this fact. Moments later she shades her eyes and turns toward the sun that is falling over her right shoulder. She speaks!
“There are pods on the moonflower vine. How many?” I sit straighter in my chair to look at the vine that covers one of our porch posts. “Uh…11, I think. Could be more by dark.” My heart soars inside my chest. She’s speaking for the first time today and is lucid for the moment.
“We may have to come back out after supper and watch them pop into bloom.”
“Yes. That would be good.” she answers, just above a whisper. The words give me cause to speak again to my love, “I know the first moonflower vine I ever saw covered the fence of your mother’s house, just to the left of the front gate. We used it as an excuse to sit by ourselves on your porch swing to watch the blooms open. Remember that? I proposed to you in that swing with the sweet smell of moonflowers surrounding us.”
“You sang a song to me, too.” “Yes! A popular one at that time, “Always.” It was also sung at our wedding in the spring. Remember that, My Love?” “Yes. Uncle Roger sang it.” “That’s right!” She really was better today. We sit quietly for awhile before she speaks again, “Tell me a story,” she asks, “a funny one.” I’m buoyed by her rationality and am eager to please her. I have to have time to think of a funny story to relate to her. ANYTHING to keep her lucid and her thoughts alive. I want so much to keep her “with” me this afternoon! To be continued…