Under the Porch

Caiden and I stood in the doorway with one foot inside, on the tarnished honey-colored hardwood flooring, and the other foot on the back porch, where we were not supposed to stand barefoot. I spun the door knob, the one we had replaced just a few weeks prior after we found screwdriver marks on it, and surveyed how the bolt teetered out and back in. I turned to show Caiden I had gotten the lock perfectly flush to the door, but he was busy watching the train go by on the elevated tracks. I turned to Mom, whose attention had also been captured by something else.

She frantically traveled from room to room as she collected various items and placed them in a shiny silver mixing bowl, the same one we used to make the batter for German pancakes on Christmas and rarely else. She took everything out and held it between her arm and her chest. She set the bowl in the sink and turned on the faucet until it was a third of the way filled. She came over to us, holding the screen door with her elbow and knee, and cocked her chin, signaling us to go. She followed us down the steps and under the porch where Dad and Remke were waiting for us. Dad was crouching down and Remke was sitting at his feet, playing with his shoelaces.

Mom knelt and carefully placed the mixing bowl opposite where Remke was. She set down paper towels and wooden skewers, positioning them in the order she would need them.

It was Dad's turn to go first. Mom followed and then the kids in order of age. Caiden, me, Remke. Mom did it for everyone, except herself and Remke who had squirmed enough to make it a two-person job.

A few years ago, we moved the plastic shed that had been living on top of the cement and I thought how my hands were not as small anymore.