He made a sign.
That week. In his garage workshop. Out of a piece of mesquite. He wood-burned the letters himself. He hung it on the porch, right above the rocker.
EVERY HOUSE NEEDS A PORCH FOR THE SECOND CUP.
It hung there for thirty-seven years.
Daniel grew up under it.
Daniel was born in 1987.
Our only child. We tried for more. It didn’t happen.
He was a sweet boy. Serious. Curious. He’d sit on the porch steps next to Harold’s rocker on Saturday mornings with a juice box while Harold drank his second cup. He’d ask questions about everything. Why is the sky blue. Why do roses have thorns. Why does Daddy drink two cups on Saturday.
Harold would point at the sign.
“Read it, Danny,” he’d say.
And Daniel would sound it out. Slowly. Six years old.
Ev-er-y house needs a porch for the sec-ond cup.
