Tal
TAL
Damn, the water coming down out of the mountains is cold! It takes my breath away when I sink down into it, but at least I’ll be clean. I use the glycerin soap all over, even in my hair, then rinse really well and climb the rocks up and out of the stream. I love the feeling of the wind on my bare skin, and there’s sure nobody up here to see me, so I walk naked back to the cabin. My fresh clothes are lying on the bed, but instead of putting them on, I lie down on the mattress just like I am and fold my arms behind my head on my pillow. That reminds me—I need a new pillow. This one is worn out.
As I lie there, I think about Cincinnati. Part of me wants to go back there, and part of me never wants to see it again. Sometimes I miss the arts, the ballgames, the creature comforts, but I’ll never be comfortable in a city again, not after what happened. The very thought makes me sick to my stomach. I don’t belong there anymore. I never will.
Dinner is the rabbit I killed earlier in the day and some root vegetables I’ve had stewing all afternoon in broth. All I have for seasoning is salt and pepper, and that’s fine. Nothing else is necessary. I picked a few greens, so I have a little salad too, with vinegar and oil as a dressing and a little crushed garlic thrown in. That’ll keep the mosquitoes off me.
When I’m finished eating, I have a bit of the vegetables left, so I’ll put them in a jar and keep them until morning. Mashed, mixed with a little flour and teaspoon of sugar, they’ll make griddle cakes for breakfast, and with any luck, I’ll have a few left for lunch.
By the time it’s started to get dark, I’ve done everything I need to do outside and I’m in for the night. With nothing but an oil lamp and a candle, I sit in my rocking chair and read. I’m reading Beowulf again. It’s one of my favorites. After that, I’m going to reread Moby Dick . I don’t have many books, so I just read them over and over. The last time I went to the library, they didn’t want to loan me books because I don’t have a phone number or email, and everybody stared at me, so I just left. I remember the “Little Free Libraries” in Cincinnati. If this place had some, I’d sure swap out what I have for something new. I wouldn’t care if they were trashy bodice rippers. Anything I haven’t already read would be welcome.
When my eyes can’t take the strain anymore, I just pull off everything except my underwear and curl up in bed. The crickets are chirping and I can hear coyotes calling in the distance. Somewhere nearby a great horned owl calls, and another answers him. It’s pleasant out here in the darkness, and sometimes I’m happy when it rains, because I love the sound on the roof.
This place has been good for my soul, but something alarming has happened. I’ve noticed that the longer I’m out here without human contact, the less I want it. I never intended for that to happen, but after what took place, maybe that’s for the best. It’s bad enough that I have to relive that constantly in my mind.
The last thing I need to do is relive it in real life.