Our Porch

These are my parents, Luis and Carmen, on the little porch they painted three different times because Dad kept choosing the wrong shade.

They came to Elizabeth with two suitcases and a pressure cooker that somehow made every apartment smell like home. Dad drove a delivery truck out of Newark for twenty-six years. Mom cleaned offices at night, then packed our lunches before school.

They never called it sacrifice. They called it what you do for your kids.

Now they drink coffee out front and argue about tomatoes like nothing in the world can rush them.