She cried when she saw the yellow kitchen.
She sat on the porch the first morning.
I sat with her.
I made her a cup of tea.
Then I made her a second one.
“Why two?” she asked.
I pointed at the wall above the rocker.
Tomás made a copy of Harold’s sign. Out of mesquite. He wood-burned the letters himself. In Harold’s handwriting. From a photograph.
EVERY HOUSE NEEDS A PORCH FOR THE SECOND CUP.
Dolores read it.
She looked at me.
“What does it mean?” she asked.
I thought about Harold. On a Saturday morning. In 1987. Looking at me over the rim of a blue mug.
“The first cup is for waking up,” I said. “The second cup is for staying.”
Dolores looked at her tea.
“Staying,” she said.
“For when you’re not in a hurry to be anywhere else,” I said. “When the place you are is the place you want to be.”
