The Street of Many Porches

by C. S. E. Cooney

(I hand-wrote a draft of this in my journal in February of this year, 2024; we’ll see what it turns into tonight)

(This is one of my fondest daydreams)

not so many years from now
after retirement, before attenuation
somewhere near water, but on a hill
(above the floodplain, on the hospital grid)
view of the sky, trees nearby
post office, library with study carrels (and maker space)
smoked fish at the grocery store (a zero-waste store)
farmer’s market, night market, craft fair
a festival for every season (and for idiosyncratic reasons)
someone to lead foraging walks
somewhere to host game nights
a concert venue and a bookstore
a place to dress up for
a theatre, a park for outdoor movies
near enough to bring you soup when you are sick
near enough to drive you to the airport or emergency room
where we can celebrate birthdays, have a bookclub
monthly literary salons, poetry nights
walks in the graveyard, walks by the shipyard
bare branches with lights
picnic in the grass when we’re up
tea on the deck when we’re down
no borders between us but zinnias and oyster shells
no miles between us: walkable
[him in his guayabera, arms spread wide:
“bienvenido, mi amigos!”
me in my ballgown, apron, and pocketknife
our house your second home, your third place]
and we will all have our gardens, our disasters
and travel together, and signal from windows
run into you randomly, walk you home part way
borrow sugar, babysit, show up at need
gift exchange, thrift shop, stress bake, create
keep each other honest, exercise en masse
age in place, gracefully
see each other’s faces,
as we fade like lace,
every day