Over her shoulder, on the second metal shelf behind three plastic lawn chairs, sat my carved mesquite porch sign from Tucson.

“Are you moving away, Grandma?” she asked.

I put the laundry basket down on the workbench beside a rusty box of wood screws.

“I’m going to live in a house with a big front porch,” I told her softly.

“And a tall pecan tree in the front yard.”

“Is it near my school?” she asked.

“Six blocks from the library,” I said.

“You can walk over Tuesday afternoons after class.”