📙 Part 8 – The Empty Spot on the Porch
February 15th, 2023 – Danner Hollow, Missouri
The porch looked wrong without him.
She tried not to look at the spot — the left side near the steps where Gramp used to sit, like a stone watching over the town.
But every time she opened the door, her eyes went there.
Every single time.
Skip still bounced out first. Still circled the bowls like a fool who forgot which one was his.
Bud followed, slower now, but faithful as ever. He’d sniff the corner of the porch, then glance at her, waiting for something that wasn’t coming back.
That was the worst of it — how they waited.
Even the dogs didn’t believe in forever, but they believed in next time.
And there wouldn’t be one.
She didn’t speak about it. Not to the postwoman who asked why she only had two bowls out now. Not to the man from the feed store who said, “Didn’t you used to have a big ol’ bulldog?”
She just nodded. Changed the subject. Shut the door a little faster.
Inside, though, the quiet stretched wider than usual.
Like Gramp had taken some of the air with him.
Skip whimpered more now.
At night, he pawed at the old quilt where Gramp used to sleep.
Sometimes he curled into that empty fold like he still felt the warmth.
And Martha would find herself stroking the air beside him.
She didn’t notice she was doing it until her fingers closed on nothing.
Bud, for his part, grew gentler.
He stopped nudging for extra food. Stopped climbing the step without pause.
He sat with her longer now. Rested his chin on her shoe and let her talk — because she had started talking.
Not just muttering or scolding.
But talking.
About Tom. About Duke. About how the store used to buzz every morning at 9, back when people still lingered at the counter for gum and gossip.
“You’d have liked Gramp,” she said once, more to herself than to Bud.
Then shook her head. “What am I sayin’? You did like him.”
Sunday came, and with it, the wind.
The oak behind the shop groaned under the weight of winter. The wind picked at the siding, pulled at her coat when she stepped outside.
The dogs waited at the door.
But she turned the other way — out the back, toward the tree.
She stood at the small mound, hands in her pockets.
Didn’t bring flowers. Didn’t kneel.
She just stood there. Still.
Then whispered, “You left too soon, old man.”
And that was it.
That night, she didn’t sweep the porch.
Didn’t wash the bowls.
Didn’t turn off the light.
She sat beside the front door, two dogs curled around her.
And in that empty third space — the cold spot to her left — she placed the red-and-blue quilt.
Folded neat. Corner turned down.
A place saved.
Still his.
Always.