Hermit. Mountain man. Rancher. Box Car Cabin. Canned tomato soup. Saltines. Folgers. Icy blue eyes. Unkempt. Snow white mane. Knobby. Wrinkled. Silent. Kind. You’ve always been burnt into my mind.
Your cabin, the one you made for your mom, it was beautiful; finally, I got to look inside last summer. Your calendar from when last you lived there, it’s still on the wall. That makes me smile, and cry a little. You were the most beautiful creature when you walked. You looked so old and frail, till that first step. Then you’d just float down a steep slippery slope; each step effortless, like it was no more than walking down a staircase. Almost 100 before you died; nowadays 100 -it’s almost like a dozen for a dime. But not from your time, not men of your kind. The men that worked like you, they were lucky to see a sunrise past the age of, what? 52? Your retirement home, one half of an old box car turned into a cabin. Possibly for the first time in your life you had electric wiring, just enough: one bare bulb, one porch light and a radio. That cabin, it’s still here too. You were so shy that you only smiled at us kids. I am glad that you did, your eyes twinkled like sunlight off a pond. I helped fix the ditch you and your dad made. I watched a tree fall one day as I took a break in the shade. Gosh, I don’t know how tall, 50 feet or more; I bet it was just a sapling when you guys were taking your break in a shade.
Just want you to know, I remember you; in all eight of us still do. You made a difference in my life, even though I know you were never trying to. Your true love, the angel of the mountain that you lived your life under, she’s still here too. She says she’ll never forget, and that she loves and misses you too.
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