I want to own a shack in the woods, along a river with a porch and a sleeping loft for the kids. A stove and a sink. An old wooden table and a canoe leaning on the outside wall. Doesn’t have to be far away. The closer the better. A place to spend the night, the day, no more than a long weekend. Stop by for a couple of hours and be back home for dinner. Grill outside. A table under the trees. Open shelves in the kitchen. A fireplace would be good. One bedroom. One bathroom. A place to shoot a bow or an air rifle. A place to skip stones. Never completely done. Always a project to do. Something to build. Something to sand. Something to stain. Wood to be chopped. A place to pour a bit of my soul. A place to let it rest.
And on the walls, I want to hang the things I would never hang in our prim suburban home, where old is store-bought and homes are designed by sight instead of feel. Nothing valuable. Nothing fine. Just the things that speak to me in a way I can’t quite understand. Like the place, this tiny shack, this meager cabin.
This place I dream about, but don’t quite see.