Wednesday, June 13, 2012

The house was abandoned, and the woods were creeping in, slowly reclaiming the place. "It must still belong to someone," I thought to myself. I wondered if the owner, probably out of state, sometimes wondered how things were getting on up at the old cabin. Somebody had cared about it at one time. It had no doubt been the site of happy vacations with lights glowing confidently out of the windows and the smell of food coming from the kitchen. On the edge of the porch sat a simple wooden chair. It had obviously been vacant for some time because a creeping tendril of a vine had twisted and climbed it's way up the leg and across the seat. The back of the chair was spattered with bird droppings. The only other item on the porch was a shovel, which I imagine had originally been left propped up against the door jam, but a wind or some other mysterious force had caused it to fall across the doorway with its blade curled upward. I had always been taught to leave shovel blades pointed down in case someone carelessly stepped on it and the handle came flying up. So I mounted the rotting steps and walked across the creaking boards of the porch. Then I flipped the shovel over. The ghosts of that place whispered their gratitude.

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