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The Cabin, Part 2
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The Cabin, Part 2
A scene showing two old lovers at home, with more parts to come, including part 1.
[1,002 words]
Wasted Time
[January 2006]
Always A Happy Ending? (Short Stories) Addiction is hell. [1,395 words]
The Soul Alone (Poetry) - [152 words] [Relationships]
The Cabin, Part 2
Wasted Time

The man's hands shake with age as he carries the load of weathered oak firewood onto the porch, where he brushes off the newly fallen snow. This is his favorite time of the year, and has always been, at least since the time that he and his friend slid down a hill on the ice so many years ago. Thinking back to that time in his life has become a struggle, and many memories have ceased to come, but this particular one has enough meaning to him as to keep it fresh in his consciousness. He remembers how the old Pontiac, beat up and used, dented, dinged, and dirty, was a concert on wheels, and how its struggle up the hill that February day echoed his own struggle for comfort in his own skin. He remembers how nervous and thick tongued he used to be around her, and how the music and the drink loosened both he and his tongue, yet he never told the truth to this friend to whom he is so strongly connected. But this is not the time for regrets, he thinks, and he glances in through the window at the one that caused all this timidity he remembers. And he breaks out in smile for what seems like the thousandth time this morning alone, as the object of his undying adoration crosses the hard wood floor toward the fireplace and sits cross-legged on the rug that lays so invitingly there in front of the warmth. A blue point Siamese cat, ancient herself, curls up in the woman's lap and stretches her neck lovingly toward the woman for the tender touch that is so welcome and comforting.

Looking around the inside of the small home, we immediately notice the photos on the wall, on the counter, stuck to the refrigerator, everywhere. It is evident that the love that these two share is enough to be spread out between multitudes of children, grandchildren, nephews, and nieces. There are photos of homes and photos of yards and photos of smiles and photos of miles. Even now, these snapshots of memories seem alive, as they are all glowing with the sentiment shared here. Several old, tattered afghans are scattered through the room, on the back of chairs, the back of the sofa, and stacked carefully along the edge of the loft. They have seen years of use and years of passion, and could teach us if only they could talk. The yellow and blue one with triangular designs is his favorite, and through the window he spots it and his desire is stirred.

He looks across the yard where just a month ago flowers bloomed and bees buzzed. Now the only colors are black, white, and the varying shades of gray that come with the harsh winter wind, and the regular person would see this as depressing, but the man sees it through joy-filled eyes. He loves the winter and the cold and the snow and the clouds, as it gives him just one more reason, as if he needed one, to curl and snuggle with his best friend. Looking now, he sees a small herd of deer and they see him, but they startle not. He has become one with nature here, and wishes them all well as they carry on the business that the Creator has for them. He glances a lone red-tailed hawk, soaring above the tall pines on the cold north wind, and he wishes for a moment that he too could see the world from that vantage point. He opens the heavy wood door and crosses the threshold holding an armload of warmth.

As he enters, he sees his soul mate on the rug, wrapped in his afghan. The cat is purring loudly, like the sound of a small motor, as it licks at the woman's chin and rubs tenderly against her beautiful face. The soft sounds of music greet the man, and his memories are stirred again, and he smiles and thinks that there really is no wasted time, only time spent learning about life, love, and the universe. He crosses over to the hearth and stirs the embers, and the fire crackles with intensity, matched only by the love they have for each other. Intense is maybe too harsh a word to describe the feeling here, but comes close enough as the two touch and share. He adds a log and the sparks fly up, up, up through the flue and out into the cold, desolate air, where they are consumed. The fire glows orange, red, and yellow, and casts a glow over the woman's still blonde hair, and gives her an almost ethereal, angelic appeal. He glances down at her and his voice catches in his throat, for the beauty he sees there transcends the physical realm and reaches into his soul. Her reply is the same as she opens the afghan for him to enter and again, again, again they are one. The cat walks slowly away from the sweet scene of love, and as she does, she glances back, and she smiles and purrs with almost human emotion. The burning embers briefly swirl again, stirred not by human hands, but by the power emitted by two kindred souls locked in a sweet waltz.

Again, we must take leave of this scene, as no man is meant to be a part of this affair, yet all men should see and know. A paradox of a sort, we know, and that is why we must share the parts of this love that can be seen by mortals. Read these tiny installments offered up and know and understand, for it is a greater world when we know love, and these two are the very definition of the word. Be patient, my friend, and we will return again to the nest built with love for you to gain understanding from this and know the meaning of life. Until the word rolls again, may our Creator keep you in love.


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© 2005 Wasted Time
January 2006

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