The Summer The Porch Light Stayed On Too Long

The light was still burning when I stepped off the bus and realized you were not waiting and the quiet that followed settled into me before my bag hit the ground. The porch stood open to the street like a held breath finally released. Moths circled the bulb. Somewhere a screen door creaked and then stilled. I knew then that whatever I had come back hoping to find had already moved on without needing to announce itself.

The town looked unchanged in the way familiar places do when they have learned how to hide their losses. The road shimmered faintly with heat even though the sun was already slipping behind the water tower. I stood there longer than necessary listening to the hum of insects and the far off whistle from the mill. The light kept burning as if it were waiting for permission to stop.

I set my bag down on the steps and sat where we used to sit on summer nights counting cars and making up stories about where they were headed. The wood felt warm. The air smelled like honeysuckle and dust. I pressed my palm flat beside me and felt the ghost of your presence in the grain.

We had grown up on this street learning the rhythm of each others days by sound alone. Your laugh carried farther than it should have. Your footsteps had a hurry to them even when you were not late. We learned each other the way you learn weather by watching the sky without naming what you see.

The first time I thought we might be something more than neighbors was on a night so hot sleep refused to come. We sat on this same porch with our backs against the railing and our feet bare on the boards. Fireflies rose and fell in the yard. You told me you wanted to leave this town so badly it scared you. I told you I wanted to stay because leaving felt like breaking something I did not know how to fix.

You laughed softly and said maybe we were both right. The light above us flickered once and steadied. Our shoulders touched and stayed touching. Neither of us moved. The night held us carefully and then let us go.

That summer stretched long and generous. We found reasons to cross the street at the same time. To walk together to the store. To linger at the edge of conversations. The town noticed and pretended not to. That was its way.

One afternoon we drove out to the quarry where the water lay dark and deep. The heat pressed down heavy. We swam without speaking and lay on the rocks to dry. When you reached over and traced a line on my arm it felt deliberate and accidental at once. I closed my eyes and let it happen. Later when you pulled your hand back we did not acknowledge it. The silence felt safer.

Autumn arrived with a promise of change neither of us could avoid. You talked more about leaving. About applications and interviews and places with names that sounded unreal. I listened and offered encouragement I did not feel. Each conversation felt like a small rehearsal for goodbye.

The night before you left we sat on the porch again. The light buzzed softly. You told me you were afraid of becoming someone you did not recognize if you stayed. I told you I was afraid of forgetting who I was if you went. We laughed at the symmetry and then grew quiet.

You reached for my hand then and held it like it mattered. The contact grounded me and undid me at the same time. We did not promise anything. We did not need to. When you finally stood to go inside the light stayed on behind you.

You left early the next morning while the town slept. I woke to the sound of a car starting and knew without looking. I did not go to the window. Some things needed to happen unobserved.

Time passed unevenly. The porch light burned every night out of habit and then because I could not bring myself to turn it off. Seasons moved through. Letters came less often. Calls stopped. The town filled the space with its usual steady noise.

When I left years later it was quiet and unremarkable. I did not say goodbye to the porch. I did not look back.

Coming home now I understood what the light had been doing all along. Not waiting for you but holding space for who we had been. I stood and reached up and turned it off gently. The dark settled around me warm and complete.

I walked inside and closed the door and felt the ache resolve into something softer. Some love does not end when people leave. It stays on quietly until someone is ready to let the night be night again.