The Story
The sun eased the mountain’s shadow’s along the expanse of snow that had fallen last night, and Connor wondered how far it would go.
He observed this from the center of his small cabin, through a small window, changing hands on a broomstick, which he’d polished smooth from overuse. His hands, however, were anything but smooth.
He took the bristles to the wood floor again, spying another cone of dirt just beside the far leg of his small table pushed beneath the small window. Seemed as though no matter how much he swept, there was always another.
So, he took to it, scooting it along the floor gently toward the door where he had guided all the rest. For some reason, keeping its form was important to him, as if a family of ants lived inside and he was just relocating them.
He succeeded with the task and allowed himself the luxury of a smile, which he saved for special occasions. He supposed it was a special occasion. This smile, though, as soft as it was, revealed that he’d missed a spot shaving this morning. His scarf would catch on it, wiggle it back and forth driving him mad, if he didn’t take care of it.
So, he took to it, looking into the skillet he’d polished about as clean as that broomstick handle. It hung on the wall above a narrow table, upon which sat a chipped white basin. It had somehow turned itself around, showing its scar, so Connor turned it to face the wall.
After shaving, he tidied up for the second time today. He parted his hair to the left, then to the right, then gave up altogether and left it mussed like his mother still lived here. Still lived.
“To keep your forehead warm,” she said from beneath blankets of dirt and stone and snow.
His face in the pan got blurry but he supposed it always had been.
Connor saw a fold in his bed that wouldn’t do. He smoothed it back and forth, but it wouldn’t tame. Must be something deeper. Must be something stubborn.
He stripped the bed down to the frame of hand-carved oak, which had been carved by his father. In the old man’s image, it seemed, with the boards all spindly and broken like he’d been for years.
Connor covered the memory with his mattress of stuffed cotton, then his sheets, and finally the quilt that always lay on top, heavy like the snow outside. Only cold for a time, his body quick to heat with the smoldering fire near the foot of the bed. A dangerous luxury, but he was his own man with his own responsibilities, and if he died in his sleep, there’d be no one around to chastise or mourn him anyway.
The bed was smooth. Almost like no one had ever slept in it. A photo in a catalog people would stop to admire its rustic simplicity. He laughed, imagining the people in the city pouring over that very photo. Then he imagined their nice things and nice family, and decided he was done imagining.
The fire the only one here doing any talking, Connor decided to keep it company. Not that he didn’t have places to go, but the fire had been a dear friend of his since he’d found himself alone, chattering incessantly, but he was a man who preferred listening.
“Not sure what to say,” Connor said to the fire. “Not that you’re listening. Not that you can listen, or understand. Goodbye, I suppose.”
Saying the words aloud made him feel stupid, so he stopped and gazed at the burning wood. Crumbled, the wood smoldered half black and half crawling with what looked like those little glowing wires inside a light bulb. Not that Connor had seen a light bulb in some time. Just once when he was a boy, through the window of a shop where an old man with spectacles, who looked just like the man who should work there, waved at him like they’d been old friends.
Connor pushed the stones he used to keep the sparks at bay closer to the smoldering wood. Lined them up in a perfect half circle, like the hearth had a big bottom lip it was sticking out. It was perfect because he checked it from all angles.
Nothing left to adjust, he brushed his hands on his legs and stood. He fetched his rucksack, coat, gloves, Winchester, and jacket before heading to the door where his boots and walking stick leaned against the wall as if having a conversation. They were probably wondering what this crazy man was doing talking to a fire, making his bed twice, and sweeping this place top to bottom until not a speck remained. Wondering why he was so meticulous when there was no one coming. The boots wondering why they weren’t gagging on his feet, because they were ready to move on. The walking stick wondering why it wasn’t biting fresh snow, because it was ready too.
He thought about answering them, but knew he’d feel worse than stupid, another word dangerous to imagine.
Connor put on the boots and picked up the walking stick, and they were quiet. He didn’t look back into the cabin, because he knew he’d find a wrinkle in his bed or an anthill on the floor or a fire that needed listening to.
So, he took to it, stepping outside and not stopping until he’d counted three hundred steps. Only then, did he turn around.
The cabin looked smaller than ever, leaning too much to the left, wearing a thick cap of snow, and smoke, even whiter, curling proudly into the sky to show the mountains who could go higher. He hoped his memory of it would endure.
Connor pulled his scarf up over his nose. Not because he was cold, but because he had nothing to say. So he took to it, wondering how far he would go.
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