I've already sped through a lot of firsts in this life. First word, first book, first love, first heartbreak, first moment when you realize the exact percentage of your time on earth you are going to be spending doing things like waiting in line at the DMV to title your car.
But until the move, I had yet to experience one monumental first, a first so unexpectedly earth-shattering I am forced to class it with such firsts as first crush, first concert appearance, first washer/dryer combination, and first pomegranate.
FIRST PORCH, people! You can see the sexy little number photographed above. It's maybe six by ten, very slightly overgrown, and doubles as the entrance to the apartment despite being stuck onto the side of the house. Nevertheless, this is IT: a bona fide, no-holds-barred, Genuine Article porch. A few days ago we fixed the light and extricated a nest in which, it appeared, several generations of bird families had been raised to cheeping adulthood. Yesterday I swept all the bird poop off the floor and endured four hours in the concrete wasteland of the suburban strip mall to purchase the requisite PORCH FURNITURE (note the slingback chairs, the table of overweening smallness).
And now I've got a PORCH! I'd been vaguely aware of the pleasures of the porch but I confess that I'd underestimated their punch. There's something viscerally appealing about the porch. It's a liminal space, caught between inside and outside, and that liminality allows you, too, to feel suspended, to rest between all the things you need to do outside and all the things you need to do inside.
Or maybe I'm confusing peacefulness with gin and tonic. Bottoms up! It's porch time.