The old porch had three steps and a loose board on the left side.
Tom used to fix it every spring, but he never got around to it last year.
Now the board still squeaks, and no one fixes it.
Biscuit is a big brown dog with floppy ears and a gray chin.
He is nine years old, which is pretty old for a dog his size.
Every evening, just before the sun goes down, he walks to the porch.
He circles the same spot two or three times.
Then he lies down with a long, slow breath.
It is the spot where Tom’s old chair used to be.
The chair is gone now, taken inside after the funeral.
But Biscuit doesn’t seem to know that, or maybe he doesn’t care.
Tom used to sit there every evening with a glass of cold lemonade.
He would rest his hand on Biscuit’s back without even looking down.
They would just sit there together, watching the yard go quiet.
Now Biscuit does the same thing, but alone.
Tom’s daughter, Mary, watches from the window sometimes.
She tries not to cry, but she usually does anyway.
She brings Biscuit his food and fresh water every day.
She calls him inside when the night gets cold.
But Biscuit always goes back to the porch the next evening.
One night, Mary came and sat on the top step beside him.
She didn’t say anything at first.
She just looked out at the yard the way her father used to.
Biscuit lifted his head and looked at her.
Then he put his head back down on his paws.
After a while, his tail gave one slow wag.
Mary put her hand on his back, just like her father used to do.
They stayed there until the stars came out.
No words were needed.
The porch was still the same porch.
The spot was still the same spot.
And the love that lived there had not gone anywhere at all.