I asked him to make it wobble a little.
He looked at me like I was crazy.
I told him about Harold.
He made it wobble.
I painted the kitchen yellow.
Myself. On a stepladder. Seventy-one years old. Tomás said he’d do it. I said no.
It took me three days.
It looks like the inside of a lemon.
That’s the point.
I planted roses along the front walk.
Six bushes. Mister Lincoln. Double Delight. Peace.
From a nursery in Glendale. The same varieties. I asked.
And I hung the sign.
On the porch. Right above the swing. In the perfect empty spot on the wall.
Tomás drilled the holes. He used brass screws. He said mesquite that old deserved brass.
I stood on the front walk. Between the rose bushes. And looked at it.
EVERY HOUSE NEEDS A PORCH FOR THE SECOND CUP.
Harold’s letters. Burned into mesquite. In 1988.
