My Grandmother’s Porch Sitting on my grandma’s porch, all of life’s other stuff drifts away. It is cool as we sip sweet tea and rock beneath the shelter of an apple tree. The fragrant white flowers, just starting to bloom, carry her to another place and time. I have seen this faraway look in her eyes before. When she is there, in that other place, it is best not to disturb her. She remembers. . . . The snap of the whip cracks across Grandfather’s back as he stoops to take a drink at the end of the row. His chafed hands dip into a barrel filthy with the dried blood of men who came before him. He winces, but does not give the men the pleasure of seeing him cower. He knows my grandmother is within sight, and he guards what is left of his pride.