In this article, we present Lisa Kee’s winning essay from our Fall 2009 No-Contest Contest. Each entrant submitted an essay, which I read and responded to. All entrants had the opportunity to revise their essays after reading my comments and re-submit. Our guest judge, Brenda Miller, author of Season of the Body and Blessing of the Animals, read only the revised versions and chose three winners. She included two honorable mentions, as well.

With our second place winner’s permission, we are publishing both versions of her essay along with the comments I made upon reading the draft she sent first. This way, you can see the changes that Lisa made and how they affected her essay. At the end of the article, you will find Brenda Miller’s comments about what she appreciated in the essay (please note that Brenda did not see my responses or the original draft, only the final entry).

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Lisa’s Original Essay

Porch Life
by Lisa Morris Kee

I begin each summer morning with my feet curled up on the end of the porch swing, take the first bracing sip of a steaming mug of coffee, and watch the sun light the surface of the neighbor’s pond. Some mornings storms roll in, and I swing, sheltered from the crack of lightning by the porch ceiling, feeling the boom of thunder in my chest, a tingle of electricity traveling over my skin. The porch screens cut the cool, driven rain into a fine mist that settles over the blanket I wrap around myself.

 I am reading a book on the swing the day the neighbors move in, hear them first frantic, and then cajoling to their three year old from the wrong side of their new front door, the adults locked out in the midst of the chaos of the move. I listen to their praise, their relief, as she releases the dead bolt, and I wish for children of my own.

One warm June morning, idly rocking the swing with one foot, I lay on my side, cheek resting against the blue and white cushion to soothe a new nausea. A light goes on in my mind. I leave the swing to dust off the pregnancy test under the sink. Minutes later, I watch a deep red plus sign appear and discover my deepest wish was granted.

On a calm, starry February night eight months later, my husband uncovers the swing from its protective tarp in the back corner of the porch and hangs it. We sit side-by-side rocking our bundled twins in the frigid winter air, the wheezing in their vulnerable, preemie lungs eases. Their tiny faces peek out from the blankets and hats. They look up at our faces, the night sky, and each other, curious at this sudden change of venue from the steaming bathroom we’d tried first.

The second summer we teach our sturdy, determined son, Charlie, to be gentle as he gives his twin sister, Elisabeth, a ride on the swing, up and down, back and forth. Then he stomps his feet, pointing and pulling, and budges her off, climbs up and grips the cushion with anticipatory glee as she slides down and gives him his ride. They sit on the swing eating triangle tea sandwiches, banana circles, and dripping fudgsicles. The chaise lounge and the round table and wooden chairs sit nearby–pristine, unused, unstained.

The third February, the swing protected under a snowy tarp, the croupy years behind us we thought, a twist, a turn we never saw coming: Elisabeth is diagnosed with cancer. Snow falls, gathers, and melts on the tarp. March comes and goes. April passes in the stagnant, sick sweet air of the hospital. We are in a fog, in a haze, in shock.

Elisabeth’s bald head is a beacon, a white flag. When we are out in public, people look curiously, empathetically, our way. Our deepest fear and pain are obvious to the most disinterested stranger. What do you do when your aching heart is on display for all to see?

One day in mid-May, just as it has every year, lime green buds unfurl from the hard lines of twigs and branches in the woods behind us and quickly ripen to deep green. The constant motion of the leaves in the swaying trees move the breeze easily through the porch and clears away the smell of the hospital and the cancer clinic that clings to us, inside and out.

We hang the porch swing.

Our neighbor, a doctor who understands better than we do what lies ahead for us, brings cupcakes to the front door, his eyes swimming. His auburn haired daughter peeks out from his side.

Elisabeth’s doctor encourages us to let her play with other kids. Her immunity is poor, though, so it’s best to play outside. We watch her lighten, return to herself when she’s with the neighbor girls. We cheat a little, count the screened porch as outside, and soon she is the moon-faced child in a soft hat in the middle of the swing, shoulder to shoulder with the red-headed, precocious Sarah, and the bossy, blonde kindergartner, Claire, who lives in the house on the other side of us. Charlie gains two big sisters.

The next summer the circle of friends widens and the neighbor kids put on a play. They cast Elisabeth as baby Carrie in Little House on the Prairie, so she can be carried when she’s tired and wear a bonnet to cover her smooth scalp. They hold a parade, attach streamers to their bikes, and Claire’s big sister decorates a wagon to pull Elisabeth, who is too tired from the chemotherapy to ride a bike or walk.

They talk all summer about the birthday bash Claire is planning. When the big day arrives, Elisabeth can’t attend–a blood test reveals too few healthy white blood cells to be in someone else’s house in a crowd. Elisabeth is crushed, retreats into a protective, shell we recognize from the hospital stays, but then, after Claire’s family waves goodbye to their guests, we watch from the porch swing as they decorate for another party in their backyard–hanging a hula hoop target from a tree, filling neon orange super soakers and a tall bucket overflowing with red, pink, and yellow water balloons. They wave Elisabeth and Charlie over, and I watch as Claire’s family recreates the entire party outside, complete with prizes, fat squares of birthday cake and treat bags for Charlie and Elisabeth.

After two years of treatment, the chemo cures Elisabeth’s cancer. But it’s the neighbor kids who heal her.

Late in August, when Charlie and Elisabeth are in bed, my husband and I light the string of pale red and blue Japanese lantern lights along the porch ceiling and settle onto the swing. We watch the late summer glow disappear behind the pond. The dense woods breathe in and out around us, the air soft with moisture. The screens become dark, transform to walls, as night descends. The porch swing soothes the deep brain, rocks the amygdala, sending an electric message of safety along our nervous systems, traveling primordial pathways at the speed of light, loosening our tongues.

We hear the neighbors’ front door groan open. Footsteps slide through the thick grass, the sprinkler dragging behind, then the creak of a faucet handle, and the circular waves of water fanning the night grass, the metallic smell traveling through the screen.

I think of all our neighbors have witnessed passing under our porch these many summer nights, sometimes calling up from the darkness to collect the daughter they’ve shared with us. Our neighbor is just outside, but we talk freely about our lives, our kids, the bills, our worries, our hopes, because maybe porch talk, porch life, is exactly what people should know about each other.

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Sheila’s Response

As I read your very lyric essay, I felt included and involved the whole way through. My heart broke when I read about Elisabeth’s cancer and was so relieved when I read on and found out that she survived. I was very moved by the question, “What do you do when your aching heart is on display for all to see?” and was touched by the actions of the neighbors and childhood friends, and I especially enjoyed the description of the re-created party all outside. I enjoyed how the swing on the porch is the thread through time and changes. That is a lyric touch I admire.

I have these responses that you might want to address upon revision:

As I read the first paragraph of the essay, I feel like I am in the present of your life. When you move to the day you were reading when neighbors moved in, I feel jarred by the present tense at that point. I wonder if starting with the event of reading a book would be a good idea and then using the lovely opening paragraph as an ending to extend the reader’s knowing to the present–certainly, the description of thunder in your chest and the tingle of electricity can be a metaphor for what you’ve been through and how any of us might have to face difficult, unexpected times.

At the end, I am eager to hear how the neighbor kids healed the daughter–what else they did to keep her involved or what else the speaker remembers about their doings. Therefore, I read about the party with great interest, knowing I am learning what one whole family did. Then I expect more examples and images especially when I read: “calling up from the darkness to collect the daughter they’ve shared with us.” I love that! I want to hear what they said! I want to know about this and experience it.

This sentence surprises me: “Our neighbor is just outside, but we talk freely about our lives, our kids, the bills, our worries, our hopes, because maybe porch talk, porch life, is exactly what people should know about each other.” This doesn’t help me see the neighborhood kids healing Elisabeth. Instead, I think it opens up a new topic, one another essay might want to handle. This one has been about having babies and almost losing one child and learning how she was sustained. My hope is that you will write more at the end about the kids who shared your daughter’s time, and then use the lovely opening passage about the swing as an ending–with all the clear and brilliant electricity of a life fully lived, a life that can attest to what one does do when the world can see one’s aching heart.

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Lisa’s Revised Essay

Porch Swings
by Lisa Morris Kee

Bumblebees bump the outside of the porch screen, careen from one fragrant, exploded pink blossom to another, making their way up the climbing roses. I lie on my side, cheek resting against the soft cushion to soothe a new nausea. I dangle one foot, push the porch swing back and forth and let myself wonder. I leave the swing to dust off the pregnancy test under the sink. Minutes later, a deep red plus sign appears. My deepest wish has been granted.

Eight months later, on a calm, starry February night, my husband, Scott, uncovers the swing from its protective tarp in the sheltered corner of the porch and hangs it. We sit side-by-side rocking our bundled preemie twins in the frigid winter air. They are two months old and just now reaching what should have been their birthday. Two tiny faces peek out from the blankets and hats as the wheezing in their vulnerable lungs eases. They look up, curious–at our faces, the night sky, and each other.

That first summer they take turns having a mid-day nap nestled on their dad’s chest, his snores rumbling under them. Any sleep is precious, but a shared porch swing nap is bliss times two.

The next summer we teach sturdy, determined Charlie to be gentle as he gives his twin sister, Elisabeth, a ride on the swing, up and down, back and forth. Then he stomps his feet, pointing and pulling and budges Elisabeth off. He climbs up and grips the cushion with anticipatory glee as she slides down and gives him his ride. At lunchtime they sit side-by-side on the swing. Their light-brown curls and deep-gray eyes remind me of a salt-and-pepper set, matched but different, too. They eat triangle tea sandwiches, banana circles, and dripping fudgsicles. The chaise lounge and the round table and wooden chairs we’ve added sit nearby, pristine and unused.

Their third February. The deep green wicker swing protected under a snowy tarp and the croupy years behind us, a twist, a turn we never saw coming: Elisabeth is diagnosed with cancer.

Snow falls, gathers, and melts on the tarp. March comes and goes. April passes in the stagnant, sick sweet air of the hospital. We are in a disorienting maze, in shock.

One day in mid-May, just as they have every year, lime green buds unfurl from the hard lines of twigs and branches in the woods behind us and quickly ripen to deep green. The heavy, astringent smell of the hospital that clings to us is no match for the breeze that moves through the porch clearing the air inside and out. We hang the porch swing.

Our neighbor, a doctor who understands better than we do what still lies ahead for us, brings cupcakes to the front door, his eyes swimming. His auburn-haired daughter, Sarah, peeks out from his side.

Elisabeth’s oncologist had encouraged us to let her play with other kids, but her immunity is compromised, so it’s best to play outside. We count the screened porch as outside enough, and invite Sarah, pale freckles sprinkled across her fine, straight nose, in to play. She calls out to Claire, the bossy, blonde kindergartner playing on her swing set in the backyard of the house next door.

They clamber onto the porch swing, Elisabeth in the middle. Her hair is thinning and the massive doses of steroids have given her a moon face. Her distended tummy pushes against a watermelon-printed one-piece, but Claire and Sarah treat her like any other kid. Charlie squeezes in, and the four of them figure out just the right amount of push of their eight bare feet off the coffee table to bring the swing up to the screen behind them without going through. They laugh at the top, swing back down and push, holding on tight, again and again. Play turns out to be the antidote to the ravages of the chemo.

Too soon, it’s August. Time to bombard the cancer with another eight weeks of the most toxic chemotherapy drugs. Elisabeth climbs into our bed early one morning, heat radiating off her body. Scott is already reaching for the phone to notify the hospital that we’re on our way when we see that all the hair on the back of her head has fallen out overnight. It takes five days in the hospital for her temperature to return to normal. The unknown cause of the high fever is gone, along with the rest of her hair.

As we leave the hospital, I notice that her pale, bald head is a beacon. People look curiously, then knowingly, our way. Our deepest fear and pain are now obvious to the most disinterested stranger. I wonder, what do you do when your aching heart is on display for all to see?

When we get home, Sarah, Claire, and Claire’s big sister, Katie, gather in our driveway. Charlie rides his tricycle in furious circles while Elisabeth pushes hers slowly out into the sunlight. She’s wearing a soft sun hat to protect her head, and she hates it. As she pulls it off to toss it aside, a girl walking past our house sees her and screams and runs home. Before I can get to her, Sarah and Claire put their arms around her, patting her back, and Katie blocks the view of the street. Katie kneels at Elisabeth’s side and tells her how pretty she looks without hair.

Winter brings the second half of Elisabeth’s 26-month chemotherapy regimen and the dangers of cold and flu season. She is hospitalized over and over with pneumonia. Despite quarantine there and at home, chicken pox erupt across her torso, cloud her face, fill her mouth and throat. Just when it feels like spring will never come, Earth tilts in our favor, the days grow longer, the dark nights shorter, and winter relaxes its grip.

The day we open up the porch and hang the swing, Sarah, Claire and Katie come to play. Elisabeth is weaker than the summer before but revives like a watered plant in their presence. They decide to put on a play in the backyard, recruit other kids. The girl who screamed the summer before follows the other kids’ leads, and Elisabeth is just one of the gang. They cast Elisabeth as Baby Carrie in Little House on the Prairie. The bigger girls carry her when she’s tired, a bonnet covering her smooth scalp. When the kids decide to have a parade, Charlie ties streamers to his two-wheeler, a playing card clothes-pinned to the front fork, thwacking the spinning spokes. Elisabeth is too weak to ride a bike, so Katie creates a paper bag horse mask, pops it on her head and tells Elisabeth to climb into the wagon she’s pulling. Cross-legged on a blanket, leaning forward, she clutches the wooden sides of the Radio Flyer. Katie whinnies and paws her sneaker at the pavement and takes off at a gallop. Elisabeth throws her head back and laughs.

By July, the neighbor kids are abuzz with anticipation for the 6th birthday bash Claire is planning. Extended family, her kindergarten class, and the neighbors are all invited. Just before the big day, a weekly blood test reveals that Elisabeth has too few infection-fighting white blood cells to be in a closed space with a big crowd. She curls up next to me on the porch swing as Claire’s guests arrive, her thumb finding her mouth, her shoulders curved in, her eyes staring into middle space. Scott and I recognize this protective shell from her long winter hospital stays. Charlie plays restlessly nearby. He can’t be in crowds when her white count is low either, in order to keep viruses from entering our house. By late afternoon we watch Claire’s family wave goodbye to the last birthday guests from their driveway. I’m relieved it’s over.

But then, we watch as Claire’s family heads to their backyard. Claire’s tall dad hangs a hula-hoop target from their elm tree. Her big brother fills neon orange super soakers and then passes the hose to Katie, who loads a bucket to overflowing with red, pink, and yellow water balloons. Claire’s mom, carrying prizes and snacks from the house, waves with her free arm toward our porch, and calls, “Elisabeth, Charlie, come over, come over.” I watch from the swing as they recreate the entire party outside for Charlie and Elisabeth, complete with games, prizes, fat squares of birthday cake and take-home treat bags.

That night Claire, Sarah, Charlie and Elisabeth squeeze together on the swing, lopping over each other like puppies in a cardboard box. The screens transform to dark walls as night falls, and Scott lights the string of pale red and blue Japanese lanterns along the porch ceiling. The kids are quiet, sated, rocking back and forth in the swing. The neighbors call from the darkness outside the porch on the other side of the dense tangle of climbing roses, “Sarah, Claire, time to come home.” The night air is dense as I step out into the dark shared space between our houses to offer my thanks–the inadequate words are all I have to offer then–and to return the daughters they’ve shared with us.

One more long, hard winter of treatment and brutal complications–meningitis this time. But, somehow, impossibly, inevitably, Earth tilts us closer to the sun, and by Easter, Elisabeth’s cancer is gone.

I wake early, move quietly to let Scott, Elisabeth, and Charlie sleep in. I bring my morning coffee to the porch swing, sink deeply where the wicker seat sags in the favored middle. The paint is gone from the frayed back, a telltale green smudge on the cross beam behind. A spring storm rushes in from the west. Sheltered from the crack of lightning overhead, the boom of thunder echoes in my chest as a tingle of electricity travels over my skin. The rain dances first on the neighbor’s pond, then clatters across our roofs, each house playing a different note. I listen to the rain on my neighbor’s roof and my own, and close my eyes in gratitude, for the chemotherapy that cured Elisabeth’s cancer, and for the neighbors who healed her.

The porch screens cut the cool, driven rain into a fine mist that settles over the blanket I wrap around myself. I put my bare feet against the coffee table and push.

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What Contest Judge Brenda Miller Said

In this essay there is a lot at stake emotionally. The author had the writer’s instinct to focus the essay on something simple like a porch swing to show the transformation of a family over time. The essay ends with a strong image that speaks for itself without reducing the complexity of the situation.