We slept on the porch in the summer. There were ten of us on the porch that year. We were part of a tight-knit group of twelve cousins who saw each other all together only once a year, but who knew each other better than the friends we surrounded ourselves with when we were apart. Family does that for you. Everyone knows everything about each other, whether it’s firsthand, or trying to listen to your mother on the phone, spilling and soaking up family gossip.
I was one of the younger cousins, so this was my first summer on the porch. The older ones started the tradition before I was born. Carving out their place in the family by laying claim to the screened in area that ran the length of my aunt and uncle’s house in The-Middle-of-Nowhere, Kansas. We laid on sleeping bags that slithered over and around each other in an attempt to stave off any splinters or nails that might have popped up from the creaky, weather-worn planks. Our parents made us sleep in them even though they contributed to the heat. There was no breeze, and the air laid on us like a thick blanket that was both comforting and oppressive at the same time.
Cicadas droned their summer songs from the safety of old trees that stood guard over the darkened house. I was snuggled in safely between my brother and younger cousin, my skin throwing heat from the slight burn I got from spending the day in the sun. I could hear my older cousins whispering sophisticated secrets from the other end of the porch and listened to the sleeping ones around me breathing deep, rhythmic breaths. We were serenaded by the ancient crooning of the cicadas, the singsong chirping of crickets and the occasional frog croaking out its presence from the lake next to the property. It was the soothing melody of the hot, sweet days of blessed summertime .
When hushed whispers gave way to contented sleep for my cousins, I found myself lying awake alone. I wanted to stay up and watch the moon arc its way across the sky. I wanted to tiptoe across my cousin’s resting bodies and let myself out into the night. I wanted to pull up the rusty latch holding the rickety screen door shut, slip out and run across the cool, dark grass to claim the swing set for my own. During the day I had to wait for my turn on the swing, but at night I could have it all to myself. I wanted to hang on to the chains that were hot during the day, but had turned cold once the sun had set, and I wanted to pump my feet until my hair flew out behind me, and my feet could touch the sky.
Roxie Rides Again 