The Porch Between Us
I wish we were neighbors.
Not just in the literal sense—houses side by side, mailboxes leaning toward each other like old friends—but in the way that means I could knock on your door when the world felt too heavy. In the way that means I’d know when your porch light was on because you couldn’t sleep, and I’d bring over tea without asking.
I imagine your house as warm and lived-in. Maybe there’s a garden out front, wild and imperfect, with lavender that leans too far and roses that bloom late. Maybe your windows are always cracked open just enough to let the music spill out—soft jazz on Sundays, folk on rainy afternoons. Maybe your dog barks at squirrels and your cat sleeps in the sunniest spot on the rug.
If we were neighbors, I’d wave to you every morning. Not the rushed wave of obligation, but the kind that says, “I see you. I’m glad you’re here.” I’d learn the rhythm of your days—the way you water your plants at dusk, the way you hum when you sweep the porch, the way you pause before unlocking your door as if gathering yourself.
We’d share things. Not just sugar or tools, but stories. I’d tell you about the time I got lost in Venice and ended up at a stranger’s wedding. You’d tell me about the letter you never sent and the song that still makes you cry. We’d sit on the steps between our homes, legs stretched out, drinks in hand, and let the evening settle around us like a blanket.
There’d be laughter, too. The kind that erupts unexpectedly, that makes you lean forward and clutch your stomach. The kind that turns ordinary moments into memories. Maybe we’d build a tradition—Friday night porch dinners, mismatched chairs and candles in jars, music playing low as the stars blink awake.
And when life got hard—as it always does—I’d be there. When your car broke down, when your heart broke open, when the silence felt too loud. I wouldn’t fix everything. I wouldn’t try. But I’d sit with you. I’d listen. I’d remind you that you’re not alone.
If we were neighbors, I’d know your favorite kind of rain—the kind that taps gently or the kind that roars. I’d know when you needed space and when you needed company. I’d leave notes in your mailbox, just because. I’d bring over soup when you were sick and flowers when you weren’t.
We’d grow older together, slowly and beautifully. I’d notice the way your laugh lines deepened, the way your hair caught the light differently. You’d notice the way I started wearing more blue, the way I paused longer before speaking. We’d become part of each other’s landscape—not in a dramatic way, but in the way that feels like home.
And maybe, one day, we’d sit on that porch and look back. We’d talk about the years, the seasons, the people who came and went. We’d marvel at how much had changed and how much hadn’t. We’d be grateful—for the proximity, for the friendship, for the simple fact that we were there.
But we’re not neighbors.
Not in the way that means our houses share a fence. Not in the way that means I can walk over barefoot and borrow a book. We’re separated by miles, maybe cities, maybe oceans. And yet, I still feel close to you.
Because being neighbors isn’t just about geography. It’s about presence. It’s about showing up. It’s about knowing someone’s rhythm and choosing to dance alongside it.
So maybe we’re neighbors in spirit.
Maybe every message, every photo, every story shared is a step across the porch. Maybe every laugh, every tear, every quiet moment is a candle lit between us. Maybe the space between our homes is filled with something stronger than distance.
I wish we were neighbors.
But in some ways, we already are.
