CHAPTER FOUR
It’s funny how your body remembers things, even when your mind has long forgotten. Like the way the muscles in my back ache when I chop wood, or how my hands instinctively find the right way to tie a knot. I’ve lived here long enough that some of the motions are as natural as breathing. I don’t even have to think about it anymore.
I think about my father sometimes—usually when I’m splitting logs or mending a fence. He was the kind of man who could fix anything with his hands. He didn’t believe in hired help. If the barn needed repairs, he was the one up on the roof. If the tractor broke down, he was there, wrench in hand. He didn’t have much to say, but when he did, it was usually practical. “Work hard, keep your word, and take care of what you’ve got.”
That was his motto. And it’s stuck with me, even if I never quite understood what it meant. I wasn’t much like him. I didn’t take to the land the way he did. I wasn’t good with animals either—except for dogs, of course. That’s why I’m here.
I wasn’t great with people either. Not like he was. I think he liked the quiet too. He just never admitted it. I remember him sitting outside in the evenings, watching the sun set over the fields. He never said much. He didn’t have to. There was a peace about him, a stillness I couldn’t grasp back then. I was always in a rush, chasing things I didn’t need. But he? He had everything he wanted in front of him.
I wish I could’ve told him I understood. I still wish I could tell him a lot of things. But he’s long gone now. And out here, that kind of thing doesn’t sting as much. The memories are softer, like worn leather. They don’t hurt as much, but they still shape you, like the weather shapes the land.
The dog barks, low and deep, startling me from my thoughts. He’s seen something in the distance, probably a rabbit or a deer. I get up and walk to the window, peering out into the fading light. The woods look different at night, quieter somehow, even though it’s the same place I’ve lived for years. Funny how that works.
I pull on my jacket, step outside, and call to the dog. He trots over, wagging his tail. “No need to chase, old friend,” I say, though I know he won’t listen. I’d never ask him to. Some things, like instincts, are just too strong. And the dog’s got his.
We walk for a while, side by side, in the twilight. The ground beneath us is soft, damp from the evening dew. Every step feels like it’s bringing me further into the past, back to a time when I was a younger man, still figuring things out. I don’t want to go back there, not exactly. But sometimes the past has a way of catching up with you, even when you think you’ve outrun it.
I stop by a small stream that runs through the woods, the water running clear and fast. I kneel down to drink from my cupped hands, letting the cold water settle my thoughts. The dog pads over and drinks beside me. For a moment, it’s just us—two creatures of habit, taking what the land offers without complaint.
It’s not much, but it’s enough. It’s always been enough. And sometimes, that’s the most comforting thought of all.
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