I knock on the door. My white-mustachioed neighbor answers. "Come on in!"
"Actually, I was wondering if Becky would like to join me on my porch," I reply.
"She's working right now, but--" He gets interrupted by his wife. "I'll be done soon. Be there in a few minutes," Becky calls from her seat, momentarily pinned down by her laptop.
I head back to my house, catalogs and magazine in one hand, libation in the other. The afternoon sun is beginning to strengthen, reaching farther into the recesses under the eaves. Tiny flying insects of varying shapes flit about, and I'm thankful that for now, mosquitoes aren't among them.
I'm a few pages into the first catalog when Becky joins me, her own beverage in hand. She takes the other seat, and we proceed to get caught up on each other's day. Talk of students, testing, the political climate--sticking mostly to climate, not politics--and future plans of travel and learning. That's one of the many things I love about Becky--she is always learning, always reaching for that next new experience to broaden her horizons and her knowledge. She glows when she talks about learning something new; that radiance doesn't just come from the knowledge itself, but from her appreciation for those who teach her. A bit of that glow rubs off on me, after hearing her stories.
Porch time with Becky is always relaxing and refreshing. It is time well spent. It is the stuff of memories.
"I've learned that people will forget what you said, people will forget what you did, but people will never forget how you made them feel." --Maya Angelou