A Scar in the Forest
Cabin 42 was on the end of a long row of cabins. There was a family renting it, so I didn’t get too close.
It was made of logs, 11 large logs high, as you would expect a cabin to be, and had a little porch that looked over the lake. Little windows with four panes gave me a glimpse of the rustic furnishings, made from logs as well. The family moved around inside, but all I could see were the tops of the adults’ heads. Two adults.
I had a mom and a dad. Mom smelled like Ivory soap. Dad smelled like Old Spice. They were graying. Mom served pancakes to Dad on Sunday while he read the paper at the table. I read the comics.
The memory faded. I got up and followed the winding road up the hill toward cabin 44.
Halfway up, 40 steps, there was a trail carved out of the trees by tire tracks. It looked like a scar upon the otherwise untouched forest. Curious, I walked a little ways up the trail.
There wasn’t a cabin here, but the dirt was smoothed out over a large enough space that there could have been.