Last Sunday, I arrived first—unusual for me. Bill was already in his rocking chair, the one with the cushion that's more duct tape than fabric at this point. He nodded toward the cooler. "Iced tea. Sarah made it. Too sweet but don't tell her."

I poured a glass. It was too sweet. I sat in the wicker chair that creaks like old joints.

Elena showed up next, still in her pottery studio apron, clay dust in her hair. She collapsed into the porch swing without greeting, eyes closed, just breathing. We let her be. Pottery Saturdays are long—she teaches from nine until her hands cramp.

"Rough day?" Bill asked eventually.

"Three beginner wheels running simultaneously. You try keeping that chaos from becoming a disaster." But she smiled saying it. Elena complains about teaching the way some people brag.

We don't solve each other's problems here. Sometimes we just sit with them, which turns out to be enough. —  Emma Clarke

Tom arrived with Jacob, both in running gear, dripping sweat. "You two are disgusting," Elena said, not opening her eyes. They grinned and disappeared inside for water, returning smelling slightly less offensive.

"Seven miles," Jacob announced, sprawling on the porch steps. "Tom tried to kill me on that last hill."

"You kept up," Tom countered. "Barely." They've been training for some half-marathon neither will actually run—the training is the point, apparently.

Maya came last, carrying a plate covered in foil. "Zucchini bread. Garden is producing faster than I can eat." She set it on the cooler that serves as our communal table, and we all reached. Still warm. Studded with walnuts. Maya gardens the way other people meditate—focused, patient, deeply serious about compost ratios.

The evening settled around us. Fireflies began their morse code courtship in Bill's overgrown yard. Somewhere down the block, someone was grilling—charcoal smoke drifted sweet and summery. A train whistle echoed from across the river, long and lonesome.

"I got the job," Elena said suddenly, eyes still closed on the swing. "The residency in Pittsburgh. Three months starting in October."

Silence. Not awkward—processing.

"That's the one you wanted," Maya said carefully.

"It is." Elena opened her eyes then, looking at the porch ceiling. "So why do I feel weird about leaving?"

Bill rocked slowly, saying nothing. Tom and Jacob exchanged glances. Maya cut another slice of zucchini bread. I watched a firefly trace patterns in the dusk.

"Because it matters here," I offered finally. "What you've built. The studio, the teaching, this." I gestured vaguely at the porch, the people, the evening itself.

Elena nodded. "In Pittsburgh, I'll be nobody again. Starting over. Which is exciting and also..." She trailed off.

"Terrifying," Jacob finished. "I get it. Every time I take a new contract, same feeling. Like, I'm decent at what I do here, people know me. Somewhere new, I'm the FNG again."

"FNG?" Maya asked.

"New guy," Jacob clarified, cleaning it up. "Military thing."

We sat with that. The rocking chair creaked. The porch swing chains squeaked. Ice shifted in glasses of too-sweet tea. A car passed slowly on Front Street, bass thumping through closed windows.

"You'll come back though," Tom said. "Or you won't, and that's fine too. But right now you're here, and that's what matters."

Simple truth. Elena smiled—relieved, maybe, to have said it out loud and not had anyone try to fix it. We don't do that here. We're not good at solutions. We're decent at presence.

Bill stirred, rocker pausing. "Who's staying for sunset? Should be good tonight."

We all stayed. The river turned gold, then copper, then that impossible purple-pink that doesn't photograph well but burns into memory. Bats emerged, darting and erratic. The first stars appeared over the Ohio hills. Someone—Tom, I think—started talking about a podcast he'd listened to, something about Appalachian folk music, and Maya asked questions, and then we were deep in a conversation about whether bluegrass counts as meditation, which sounds absurd but made sense at the time.

This is what Sunday evenings look like. Not every week—sometimes people are traveling or tired or busy. But most weeks, we drift toward Bill's porch like migrating birds who've forgotten why but remember the route. No agenda. No structured activity. Just the slow accumulation of ordinary moments that, strung together, become the texture of home.

By nine, mosquitoes drove us inside. Elena left for her cottage. Tom and Jacob headed out for what they called "recovery pizza." Maya gathered her empty plate. Bill stayed on the porch—he usually does, long after we've gone, rocking and watching the river in the dark.

"Same time next week?" I asked, though I already knew the answer.

"If the weather holds," he said. "Bring more people if you want. Porch is big enough."

It is. Barely. But we'll fit.

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