Almost all my early memories happen on Mama Heaton's front porch. That's why this morning it felt so good to sit on a porch with Eva, to rock back and forth while the wind blew, to tell her stories about watermelon seed spitting and pig tail splitting. This far south, the cherry trees are on fire, and I try to explain home to her. This is home, I say, and later, we're going home. Home, I say again and point to her, then rock until finally she sleeps. Home.