The Porch Swing My Father Built

When we bought our first house, my father showed up the next weekend with a truck full of lumber. He's eighty-one. He said, "Every house needs a porch swing," and wouldn't let us help except to fetch screws.

He worked for three days. He measured everything four times. He sanded each slat by hand until it was smooth as butter. He used the same design his own father had used for the swing on the farmhouse where he grew up.

When he hung it from the porch ceiling with two heavy chains, he sat down first, gave it a gentle push with one foot and closed his eyes. "Perfect," he said.

These days it's where my husband and I end up after supper, most nights. Our daughter falls asleep on it in summer. The neighbors stop to chat. And every time my father visits, he sits in it with a cup of coffee, swinging slowly and looking very pleased with himself.