Porch, we meet again…

The porch and I have a complicated relationship, dear reader.

One would think that after surviving The Great Fern Hanging Incident, I would have learned my lesson. One would be wrong. Today’s mission sounded simple enough: Hang the strawberry plants. Three innocent little hanging baskets. That was all. Tiny vessels of future strawberries and happiness. Surely fate would allow me this small victory.

Surely.

But alas… spring had arrived, and with it came the enemy reinforcements.

The porch had grown crowded since our last encounter. Wasps now patrolled the perimeter like tiny airborne security guards. Mosquitoes hovered nearby like bloodthirsty spectators waiting for violence. Somewhere in the distance, I swear I heard the faint buzz of something with malicious intent.

Still, the mission had to continue.

Because the neighborhood stray cats—those adorable fuzzy criminals—had discovered the strawberries. The tiny thieves had been helping themselves to the fruit like they were paying rent around here. Every morning I would walk outside only to find half-chewed berries and the unmistakable look of feline satisfaction lingering in the air.

Absolutely not.

The strawberries deserved better. They deserved sunlight. They deserved safety. They deserved elevation. And I, apparently, deserved suffering. Armed with determination and a step stool that I foolishly believed to be trustworthy, I ventured onto the battlefield once more.

Now listen…

I have done this before. I knew what I was doing. This was supposed to be easy. Those are the exact words people say moments before disaster. The first plant went up successfully. Confidence increased. The second plant? Smooth operation. Morale was high. By the third plant, I had begun to believe I was unstoppable. A seasoned warrior. A porch-conquering legend.

And that, dear reader, was when betrayal struck. Not from the wasps. Not from the mosquitoes. Not even from the neighborhood berry bandits.

No.

The enemy came from within my own ranks. The step stool betrayed me. One second I stood victorious, reaching upward toward glory. The next, I was fighting for my life and dignity as gravity launched a surprise attack. There was flailing. There was panic. There may have been sounds that could summon demons.

But somehow…

Somehow…

I saved the plants.

The strawberries survived. The baskets remained hanging proudly in the sunlight while I, their brave protector, limped away wounded from battle.

The casualties:

• Several bruises
• A couple of bandages
• One deeply offended elbow
• My remaining trust in household furniture

Nothing is broken, thankfully. Though my body currently sounds like bubble wrap every time I move. Victory, however, comes at a cost. And today, victory tastes like Tylenol, ice packs, and prednisone.

Still…

The strawberries are safe.

And if those stray cats think they can outsmart me now, they are gravely mistaken.

This war is far from over.

— Bella Imperia

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