Ten Minutes on the Porch with My Dad

My father is seventy-nine. He has a routine: every evening at six-thirty, he sits on his front porch with a cup of decaf and watches the street. I've started joining him when I visit.

We don't talk much. He points at things. "That's the new family, they have twins." "That dog's name is Moose." "That tree's going to need trimming." The neighbors wave. He waves back.

Sometimes he tells me a story I've never heard: about his first car, about the time he met my mother at a roller rink, about being a kid in this same town sixty years ago. Sometimes he just hums.

When the streetlights come on, he says, "Well," and goes inside. It's ten minutes. It's the most peaceful part of my week.