His woods

 He walked in the woods while other little boys played stickball and teased the girls. It was a lonely place filled with voices heard by those who would listen. He connected with the trees and those who dwelled in the protective branches. They spoke to him with sounds and sometimes quick actions to escape something that must have seemed so large. He learned to walk quietly, and in time, the creatures of the woods didn't fear his presence. Like his ancestors, he had to hunt for food. It was an honor to take the life of an animal that gave itself freely to me with sadness but also understanding in his eyes.

He could hear the kids laughing and playing in the distance, never caring who or where he was. He was the odd one. Don't pay any attention to him. Others chimed in. He supposed things were said to hurt his feelings, but words can't hurt if you don't hear them.

The woods and all their wonders became who he was as he aged, and in time, he walked away from the noises, smells, and lack of kindness forever. Deeper into the woods, he ventured, learning, feeling, and, as he liked to think of himself, a Stuart of the forest. He had no contact with life outside of the woods. All he needed was within his reach. Time passed but held little meaning for him. He didn't need a watch or a calendar. The woods told him what season was beginning and ending and when to prepare. It wasn't because he disliked people that he lived this life. He sometimes came across others like himself who walked away. He found a sense of brotherhood talking to them but knowing their paths would never cross again.

He lived in the woods and would die in the woods. He sometimes wondered how he would end. A bear, a blazing forest fire, falling down a slippery slope. Who knows, but whatever the way, he was good with it as long as his body returned to the soil of his beloved woods and his God claimed his soul.

Many years ago, a group of nature lovers came upon a run-down cabin deep in the forest. They found artifacts of hand-made garments and crude tools. There were faded pictures half-covered with moss showing a family and a smudged mark of a young boy with a vision not shared. Tattered furs hung by hooks to cure left unattended for many decades, and empty canned goods that once held seedlings waiting to grow up but never did. Broken snow shoes, a makeshift sled, and a small pile of firewood covered in vines were another vision of who this man was. 

His God called him home one cold winter day as he prepared his supper. His weathered hands held onto the old photograph clutched with purpose and memory. His place in the world was this crude cabin he built himself, which he seldom left because there was no need. Now, as he looks down at his life and the brightly colored backpacks of the nature walkers, he is at peace, realizing that after all this time, some people maybe did care a little bit about who he was and the chosen life he never wanted to share.

Mike 2024