Front Porch Sisterhood
The front porch. Every Southern house, every Midwest farmhouse, every city stoop has one. But today… it’s more than wood and nails, more than chipped paint and rusted hinges. The front porch is a woman’s confessional, a safe haven, a sisterhood. Two friends sit here. Maybe they’re rocking in chairs that groan like old bones, maybe they’re perched on the steps, knees brushing, or maybe it’s that swing that squeaks— a song all its own. Here, nobody’s keeping score. You don’t need to fix your hair, don’t need to put on church lipstick or hide the gray roots. The porch don’t care. And neither does your sister. Because sisterhood—real sisterhood— it don’t ask you to be perfect. It just asks you to show up. To sit. To breathe. To pour a glass of sweet tea and tell the truth. The porch has heard it all: arguments with husbands, dreams too fragile to say indoors, prayers whispered for children gone astray, confessions that sting...