Doris had known the home when it was young. She and Ed had bought it new, when they were just newlyweds, their entire lives open before them like a blank diary.

She had lived a life there. It was there that they had raised their one child—their daughter, Ellen. It was that same porch where Ellen had received her first kiss, the night of her junior prom, from Mike Dunlop, a cowboy Ed had never liked. He had flashed the porch light on and off until they quit, while Doris sat in front of the television set watching Johnny Carson, shaking her head and telling him to leave the young people alone.

Only four years later Ed’s wake had been there, in the front room, and neighbors crossed that porch to pay their respects. He had died in the home and wanted his viewing there as well. When it was over, she and Ellen had sat and cried together on the porch until they had nothing left inside to cry out. The neighbors had cried too. And they brought hot bread and pies and potato casseroles with cornflake topping.

There had been other tears shed on that porch. She had stood on the porch and cried the day Ellen left for college, driven to Salt Lake City by her cousin who knew his way around the big city. Then she cried again when Ellen and her baby grandson, Alessio, left for Italy to live. Then too her good neighbors came to her aid, bringing fresh-baked bread and casseroles. That’s how things were done in Vernal.

The home had aluminum window canopies, once bright green but sun-faded to an olive hue. It had wrought-iron railings set in the concrete of the porch, painted white, chipped in places and rusted at the bottom. An oxidized chain-link fence surrounded the yard, with grass intertwined and tall at its base where the lawn mower didn’t reach and the weed eater had failed to bring it down. An apple tree grew in front, its boughs heavy with sour green apples, and some newly fallen fruit peeking up from the grass like bird eggs in a nest.

Yes, there had been a lot of living in that home. Someday she too would be gone. The house would be sold, to a young couple. They would come. They would tear out the harvest gold shag carpets and refinish the hardwood floors protected beneath. Walls would be painted again, this time with paints that had food names: oatmeal, vanilla or cranberry. New appliances would be bought, cappuccino makers and refrigerators with water and ice in the door. The cycle would start anew with somebody else.

But not yet. Doris’s daughter was back. Her grandson was back. And she had a blanket to finish.

Doris set down her needles and waved as Eliana’s car sidled up to the curb and stopped. As Eliana took the keys from the ignition, Alessio slumped down in his seat, his frown returning. “Why can’t I come with you?”