The cabin

     The first and second fingers of his right hand were stained yellow from the many cigarettes he smoked over his lifetime. He had some store-bought teeth, but he only put them in on occasions like a funeral which was about all his social life consisted of. He had been alone for so long he couldn’t remember when he wasn’t.

   He lived in the mountains in a small hunting cabin he and his son built some thirty years ago. After his beloved Beth passed on, he didn’t see any reason to wander the halls of the house they shared for decades. He sold it, giving the proceeds to their son but keeping just enough to outfit his cabin, so he'd never have to come down off the mountain.

   He now spent his days walking in the forest setting traps for rabbit, fox sometimes mink. He sold the pelts, and if it was edible, he kept the meat in his freezer for those long winters. His cupboards were filled with canned goods, and a ten-pound bag of coffee kept him satisfied for a long time.

   He loved the place he called home. The quiet and solitude became a dream come true after years of city noises and the ever-increasing sounds of first responders. He had heard enough and seen enough of hatred and unrest. There was no television or radio out there, no internet of wi-fi he had banished all of it in return for peace and memories.

   On frigid winter days, he drank coffee, smoked cigarettes and stared into the fireplace going back in time to pieces of his life that brought him great joy and happiness.No need for pictures hanging on the walls no reason for knickknacks cluttering the place. All he had to do was invite the quiet and sink back into time where he saw the faces of those he loved and those he didn’t.

   His son found him one spring day. He had a feeling the older man was gone just one of those gut-wrenching feelings you sometimes get when you know.He found the cabin door open, and the fireplace had long since burned out. A tin plate stacked high with cigarettes and an empty cup was all that was on the table.

   His heavy coat and boots were on the hook, and his dad's favorite rifle was gone. There was a note nailed on the wall that read…Probably you son who will read this hoped you would have found your way back here for a visit, but it's of no matter now. A few weeks back a damn trap got me and chewed up my ankle pretty bad. I got my self home and doctored it the best I could, but it got the gangrene, and I pretty much knew what was next.

   I made my peace with my maker and brewed a hot pot of Joe grabbed my rifle and headed out to my favorite spot on the mountain; you know the place. I will try to hold on for a bit in the hope that you might show up but if you don’t, know I love you, and I'm with your mother now in eternal peace.

   He came across that particular place and stopped in his tracks as he made out the shape of a man slumped against a tall pine. His rifle stood beside him, and a pile of cigarettes was carefully crushed out beneath his boots. It was in this exact spot many years ago he listened to the old man tell him how one day they would build a cabin and come there often together. He began to cry, realizing how few those times were.

   He comes to the small cabin with his son now. They hunt and fish, and he tells him about his grandpa and how he loved this place. Every so often they go to their special place where a rusted rifle leans against a tree, and the memories fill the quiet of the mountain

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