The Green Porch Light

My mother has a habit of half-assing everything in the most endearing way possible. From cleaning the counter in figure-8s — totally missing the dirtiest sections — to undercooking pancakes and making gooey centers my favorite way to eat them. She puts things away not where they go, but wherever is most convenient or where she thinks they belong.

For most of my life, this habit did not include decorating for Christmas. One year, we did a Disney-themed Christmas tree and hot glued strings onto all of my Disney toys to use as ornaments. We had these light-up wreaths for every window in the house that served as my nightlights through the winter months. I almost couldn’t sleep without the glow through my sheer grey curtains once we took the wreaths down.

We lined the fireplace with flashing rainbow lights, sprinkled fake snow fluff on the mantle, and laid out a pristine Christmas town. We wrapped red and gold garland around the banister and placed my favorite ice skating snowman music box on top of the piano.

Then, I grew up. Once I went to high school and then onto college, I guess it wasn’t as fun for my mom to decorate for the holidays as it was when I was little. The Christmas tree suddenly turned into a wire dress form stuffed with tissue paper to look like flowers. The next year, the miniature fiber optic table tree was enough.

And finally, the Christmas decorations culminated in a single green light bulb in the lantern above the tiny front porch. No one even bothered to change the bulb after the holidays, so it remained — the year-round Christmas tree equivalent of a porch light.

That green light guided me home as I drove my rusty 1990 Acura Integra home from my high school boyfriend’s house way later than curfew. It shined for me as I walked home from the shady house-turned-bar a few blocks away when I was home from college for the summer. I don’t know how it never burnt out, maybe it was lit with Christmas magic, or maybe my mom just had lots of extra green bulbs and didn’t want to buy regular ones when these worked perfectly fine.

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I had been having some bad anxiety and panic attacks about moving to Pittsburgh with my boyfriend after college. I had agreed months ago, but now something just didn’t feel right anymore.

One day, we were both at a breaking point. He was scared and didn’t understand what was going on, but I didn’t either. So, he planned a fun excursion around Pittsburgh and two nights at a fancy hotel to get me excited about the move.

I saw my therapist, got myself together, stopped crying, and drove almost four hours to start the long weekend. We went to the Andy Warhol Museum, to Fat Heads Brewery where they had my favorite brisket sandwich, and to a farmer’s market and an international grocery store. The hotel was the nicest I’ve ever stayed in — it had contemporary decor with geometric prints on the walls and carpet in bright funky colors. The bathroom was huge and had a black and white tiled floor and an elegant glass shower.

But, I couldn’t get over the oppressive anxiety and panic that overwhelmed me the second I had time to think.

On the final day of the trip, we went to a Pirates baseball game. I hate baseball, but he loved it, so we went. Crammed in between strangers in small plastic seats while people played a game I knew nothing about, I had nothing to do but think. And I panicked. I became claustrophobic. I was sweating and crying and worrying about what everyone around me would think of me. I squeezed my way through the drunken spectators and pulled out my almost-dead cell phone. This caused even more stress because it was my only link to my support system and people that could get me out of there. I called my roommate and she calmed me down. She told me to ask if we could leave early and then I could just go home.

I could just drive the four hours home...which also gave me anxiety because I hated driving and would have far too much time to think even more.

So, I did. And my boyfriend pushed back and yelled at me in the middle of the stadium. Told me that he couldn’t believe I refused to sit still for a few more hours and watch baseball with him. I physically could not wait. I was falling apart.

He drove me back to his house where my car was parked — the whole way, he listened to angry metal music that made my head throb. I got into my car, apologizing, and giving no explanation because I had none.

I directed my GPS to my parent’s house and not back to college. I needed something familiar and safe to latch onto.

I cried for a while, tears dangerously blocking my vision as I drove. And then, I reached an emptiness that no length of Harry Potter audiobooks and Broadway soundtracks could fill. I stopped crying and just drove in silence.

Finally, I found myself driving in my childhood neighborhood. I made the turns in the dark, knowing them by heart, using only muscle memory.

And then, something appeared in my tunnel vision that made me smile. There, above the porch as it had been for years, was the green light — breaking into the emptiness and calling me home.