For a long, long time I lived on a porch. I can still see it in my mind. It had a roof, a wooden floor, and weathered, peeling paint, and everything about it led to the door. And the door was always closed.
Sounds came from behind the door—voices, laughter, sobs and shouts. My sister was there, and my brother, and sometimes I even heard the voice of my father—though not my mother, for she was dead. My nieces and nephews were behind the door, and my cousins, aunts and uncles. The house contained a good-sized crowd. The porch was mine alone.
Sometimes the door would open, and my brother would speak to me from the threshold. He’d throw out compliments or comfort. He’d ask for compliments or comfort. He never invited me inside, though. He’d explain that, if he were to invite me in, the people in the house might not like it—my sister and my father might not like it.
My brother never came onto the porch with me. That would have been unthinkable.
I wasn’t happy on the porch, but for a long time I was OK with it. I spent much of my time watching the door, waiting for it to open, and I held on to the hope that someday, when it did, I’d be invited in.
I based my hope on the messages that reached me from behind the door.
“We love you,” the voices cooed. “You’re so smart, so talented—so good at everything! We miss you so much. Someday we’re going to let you in.”
“I love you, too!” I’d shout back. Then I’d stand in front of the door, waiting, waiting . . .
I heard other messages, too, though I tried hard not to. There were whispers that I wasn’t welcome in the house, that my hair and clothes were unsuitable, that I was too irreligious, or too straight-laced, or too radical, or too serious, or too bookish, or too lucky. Sometimes I’d hear, after a shout of “You’re so amazing,” a voice whispering, “but everything’s been easy for you. You’re not like us.”
The messages were confusing, but I grew to understand them—to look past the words to the meaning, which never changed:
“You don’t belong in our house with us.”
As I’ve mentioned, I stayed on that porch for a long, long time. For years. For decades. Toward the end, I hated being there, but I didn’t want my brother to look out and find me gone. So I sat on the porch and hoped for the best.
But there were others not in the house, not on the porch. They passed on the road. They sat in the grass and ran through the nearby woods. They seemed to think I was good enough to be with them, so sometimes I’d slip off the porch and we’d play together.
At first, I would run back quickly, afraid that I’d miss the opening of the door—maybe even an invitation inside. But as time went on, I let longer stretches pass without visiting the porch. One day I was watching the door, listening to the voices, when I noticed my new friends playing nearby. And I suddenly felt so tired of the porch, so tired of waiting for the door to open. So I locked it on my side.
At first, no one in the house noticed. Then, while I was picking wild berries with my friends, I heard a pounding, and my brother calling my name. I felt the old surge of hope, and ran to the house. I unlocked the door with trembling hands. My brother had wanted to tell me something, but I hadn’t been on the porch. He was surprised, but glad to find me back again. I listened with great attention, and gave him what I had to give. He smiled when he’d finished, then shut the door. I sat down to wait for the next time it opened.
But my friends in the forest needed me. They came and asked me to play, and they were so eager for my company, and so kind, and they didn’t tell me I was “so smart” or “so lucky.” They didn’t whisper about me to one another. They took my hand to lead me from the porch . . .
I locked the door on my side again.
This time my brother nearly beat the door from its hinges. With my sister and father behind him, he shouted that I had to stay on the porch—it was expected of me. I must never leave it.
I told him that I wanted to be invited into the house, and that if he couldn’t do it, I would leave. And he screamed that I was crazy, that I was worthless, that my new friends secretly despised me, that I would die alone.
I turned from him and looked at my friends, and they reached out their hands and led me from the door, from the porch. Then one of them, ignoring my brother’s curses and the growls that came from the house, shut the door, locked it carefully and handed me the key.
I threw it in a lake. I did.
Sometimes I still hear sounds from the house—laughter, sobs and shouts. The voices travel to me, but the messages can’t reach me where I live in my new house, with my new friends, warm and safe and loved.
Loved.
I never miss the porch, and I’ll never live there again. I wish I hadn’t stayed so long, but that’s my only regret. And when I look at those with whom I belong, my regret fades.