Homestead

The ground was bruised. Battered by the last of the winter storms, it squished under his feet. These woods always underwent a painful rebirth every spring. Soon fresh green shoots would rise through the forest floor and transform this soggy brown mat he walked on. The creek he followed ran quickly, swollen from the melted snow. He let its sparkling musical sounds take him back years, to when he first explored this plot.

Six generations of the family had graced this land. Over 150 years of joy, struggle, and honest hard work had seen houses and families raised here. Hands like his had traced the bark of cherry trees from the time of sapling until their sturdy trunks became suitable for woodworking. The land had given him and his kin the materials they needed to shelter and come together. The deer that picked their paths through the thicket provided meals and hides. Turkeys had strutted and shared their impressive display with potential mates while he quietly became one with this piece of earth.

Today he walked to one of his favorite places. His feet took him there with both purpose and excitement. He’d been coming here for over a year now. He had witnessed the concrete footprint poured into the small clearing. He had watched as the frame was built and a new home came into focus. He silently enjoyed the raucous banter between friends, more like brothers, that took this structure from its boney beginnings and added substance to a dream. During all of this, relentless energy pushed the young builder forward. Some days slower, while others a frenzy of activity, until eventually, it was completed and inhabited. That’s when he saw her for the first time.

The sweet young girl was a compilation of nonstop laughter and boundless spirit. Whenever she came over, the home’s interior seemed a little brighter. She skipped and ran circles around her father, the builder. Sometimes she would be a princess with a tiara, while other times, she would be covered in mud listening intently as her dad explained some tiny facet of nature he held in his hands. Watching her made him glow with pride. Watching her father impart the wisdom of the land only made that glow warmer.

It was now a familiar route, and he took it with a regularity you could set a watch by. His path never changed. In deep snows, in mossy carpeting, and crunching leaves, he made his way. As the seasons progressed, his princess (as he thought of her) grew taller. Snow forts and tree houses sprung up for her. Everything in these woods gave itself up for her scrutiny. She learned the names of birds and how to track animals.

Today he walked closer than he had before. He left the safety of the creek’s bank and made his way to the gravel that extended from the house’s foundations. He took some time to enjoy the pattern of kindling and wood laid in the firepit. He knew it was only days away from being warm enough for a campfire, albeit a cold one. The gathering would be huddled together, and a bottle of whiskey would make its rounds inside the tight-knit circle of friends. That made him smile, remembering his own bonfires.

He was trepidacious as he neared the window that light streamed from. Maybe they wouldn’t even notice. The sun had only just slipped under the horizon, and darkness was closing in quickly. He could use the shadows to his advantage. Just out of range, he stopped and listened to the sounds coming from within. Her chatter seemed as constant as the nearby stream. It was accompanied by her father’s confirmation or clarification, depending on where their conversation meandered. This gentle exchange helped him make the last few feet to the windowsill.

As he peered through the glass, he saw them working closely together on some project at the table. That’s when the father stopped what he was doing. He stood up abruptly and turned toward the window. He swiftly closed the distance and searched for what had called him there. At first, he thought he could miss the intense searching gaze. When their eyes did lock, a fierce protective wave poured from inside the house out into the darkening night. Then the furrowed brow changed to bewilderment with recognition. Generations apart, decades long since passed, compressed into an instant. Their features were similarly molded as their love of this land had also shaped their souls. They acknowledged each other before the spirit dissipated back to its original homestead, ready to make the trek through the woods again another day.