A Stranger's Colorless Cabin

The wind pounded on the windows almost arbitrarily. 

 Each knock imprinting a reminder of how I, fairly recently condensed a clean scar firmly upon a neighbor’s window after testing my luck wielding my dad’s driving iron.  

My dad’s clubs were all I knew of my dad...and mother for that matter. 

They hadn’t been there while I was growing up. 

They weren’t there to teach me how a golf club is swung, or even how it feels to not be unafraid when the wind picks up a little too much for comfort. 

My Foster parent Mr. Samson, who reluctantly took me in after my parent's fatal car crash knew a different kind of club. Clubs to him were where you’d gamble all day expecting to triumph over your debt during a match of cards and end up crashing from the wasted end by nightfall.  

 He, after hearing the ‘horrid’ news of inheriting a 15-year-old kid to cook and do chores for him, reluctantly signed off to become my foster parent just three weeks prior. 

 So, when things got rough, and the chores didn’t silence the loneliness I felt deep within. I did what I could just like I've always done, carried my clubs around. closed my eyes and pretended someone was there guiding my swing. My thoughts created a shield of sorts, to protect me from swinging in the wrong direction. 

 I realized shortly after the sound of my golf ball hitting the little cabin in the back of my house, that the shield I created was inevitably unreal. 

So much for attempting to embellish a suburban sport to a more or less town composed of Pinewood trees, and a couple dozen cabin’s townsfolk called their residencies.  

The window began shaking now, the wind appeared to be a worthy opponent, looking to rival me by puncturing my bedroom window with its sharp air.  

Despite nature's persistence that evening, I still wanted to reevaluate the damage I procured onto the cabin’s window. After all, I had yet to evaluate the place. who knows what type of murder weapons my neighbor could be storing in the pinewood sea’s known newly to me as my home? 

Making an attempt at remorse for my set, lousy, good-for-nothing foster-hood ways was the least I could offer this desolate town I arrived in just weeks before.  

So, there I went to face the reality surrounding me, bundled up in a single grey hoodie, short sleeve shirt, and a pair of overworn barely washed jeans 

To me, It was attire built for protection, as the oversized clothing could shield me from any dangers the woods encased.  

The trees cast shapes across the forest, obstructing my view of the shed, planted about an acre or so past my backyard. The wind didn’t help much, as I opened the back door of my house. 

 I grasped the door handle with a cold hand and began to visualize Mr. Samson's reaction to the near hole-in-one I scored through his shed’s mossy window that morning. He wasn't exactly a friendly man, much less a forgiving one from what I could tell. But then again, I doubt anyone would be too fond of a shaggy-haired teen boy deciding to make a golf game in a pine tree-littered forest. Maybe I could argue that by the looks of it- the “cabin” could’ve been an abandoned torture chamber. Perhaps I could also pitch to my neighbor that the woods were so dense yesterday that the rickety window didn’t occur to me as I swung my “shielded” driving club carelessly through the air. Or maybe I could go present myself and make an attempt to repair the damage I inflicted upon his poor house. 

I jogged through the noisy winds, hoping to come across his cabin before the wind caught me mid-way there. Putting one hand in my pocket and another in Infront of my face I charged through spikey leaves of the pine woods and towards the house. In a little under two minutes, I successfully traversed the wilderness and hopped onto the cabin’s splinter-filled- burgundy porch. Scanning the two small windows Infront, my eyes settled on the left-most one where my mark was left. The wind howled in my ears and incased my face and squinting eyes with a cool sensation. I used the wind, now, as a sort of Armour as I cautiously gazed upon the rusty old cabin door.  

It was creepy, to say the least. Like those typical thriller-movie-style cabins in the woods, The ones where you always end up hiding in because the man carrying a chainsaw got too close to you and your immature teenage friends camping out in the forest. 

Despite its undesirable complexion, I still allowed my hand to freely knock upon the weathered door frame. 

30 seconds passed,

 then another

... And another. 

I began to zone out, looking for some tree to fixate on as the wind showed signs of mixing with oncoming rains. Preoccupied with Clutching my hoodie over my eyes and squinting at the same duplication of a pine tree spreading a mile across, I barely noticed the door opening as a man’s hand peered through the door. After the wrinkled hand, followed an older man’s voice, criticizing my actions “What’re you doing out here? it’s about to storm boy!” The wrinkled hand grabbed at my hoodie, causing me to stumble into its house.  

Dusting myself off, I allowed my body to adjust to the humidity inside the cabin, which to my surprise, wasn’t decaying. It wasn’t that scary either. It was messy. But not in an abandoned shack sort of way. Paint covered older log walls, little abstract roses painting in reds and pinks coated in thick layers of shimmering reflections coming from the trails of rain of the windows. And as I stood there scanning from wall to wall, piecing each new abstract variation of a wild plant, or tree methodically splattered on the walls so no painting got upon the equally unique hand-carved pine wooden chairs. Chairs, that when approached, grew in appeal with lines, and prims verifying in complexity painted all over.  

My perplexed expression carried over to when I noticed the window. 

The window, shattered from the outside was covered with a beautiful rain-enhancing mosaic composed of indistinct blues and greens. “Glad you like the art.” said the man non nonchalantly. “Is it all yours?” I asked instinctively. His burnt brown eyes and partially matted long grey hair moved with his titling head as he replied, “No, this piece-” His shadowy brown eyes moved across the room back to ‘my’ newly refurbished window. “Someone made for me.” “Hey listen I’m sorry, my golf ball went straight at it and-” I was cut off by a, “Don’t mention it, boy, the window was practically falling off anyway.” he thought a moment then spoke again “Stay a while. Unless you have somewhere better to be in this weather?” “I don’t” I responded as the eighty-something-year-old man hobbled over to his kitchen and fumbled with a little drawer under his paint-stained sink; pulling out a large hammer. Admittedly, I moved back a step. Although the man did spare me the trouble of soaking in the storm, a had a thought that it could’ve been a distraction for underlying intentions where he would use that hammer as a butcher's tool. But they were just thoughts.  

For, as much as this man was a stranger to me, I was equally as much as a stranger to him.  

With the hammer, he began cracking at the same blue glass that was showcased on the scarred window. “What are you planning to make with that?” I asked. He stood back a second and looked at me briefly “I’m not sure yet. Would you care to help me decide?” “I’m not much good with tools,” I replied hesitantly. And to my surprise, he said, “I can’t argue there, however, I have noticed, you are good at creating things.” He motioned to the window once more. Although I hardly could take credit for that. I label most things I have accomplished with the word pointless. “I don’t think that’s true,” I said. The man clicked his tongue and began to convey his inner-most thoughts. He then sighed and went back to absent-mindedly crushing his translucent blue sheet of glass.  

All that afternoon, until the storm cleared, I watched as the man chipped away at his soon-to-be piece of art.  

And by nightfall, I headed back through the woods, to my own, so-called residence.  

Night came and went. 

And as a few days passed- I began to grow bored fending for myself in a middle-sized empty house. My uncle, as per usual was nowhere to be seen when daylight struck our darkly shingled roof. My mind considered this lack of socialization as I tampered with the idea of visiting the man in the cabin again.  

After all, I had forgotten to get his name.  

I took about three minutes to look at the smoke-stained yellow wall that I had set my gaze on, then proceeded to run myself over to the cabin. 

This time I was less distracted by penetrating winds and had gotten to the door with ease.  

Gently, I once again tapped on the cabin door.  

I waited for a few minutes before the frail brown-eyed man gazed upon me in curiosity. “What are you doing here?” He asked in a demanding tone. “Well, I was just thinking about what you said and I thought I would be interested in making some art.” He looked at me with an even coat of question painted upon his face. “I don’t know you” The questioning eyes that were glaring at me reflected now in my own eyes as I asked, “You don’t remember me from the day that storm hit?” He furrowed his brows “Look boy, I’m not sure if you’re lost or what, but it hasn’t rained a darn drop all week.”  

None of that sentence was true,

but one of us had to be right.  

It didn’t make sense. 

Was this some sort of Amnesia? 

My thoughts raced in circles, but I decided it was best to leave this interaction at the cabin’s front porch and find an explanation for it another time.  

I said a simple “I’m sorry, I’ll head home now” and with that, I headed straight back to my house, and as renewed strangers, me and the man I did not know parted ways.  

I spent the rest of that day peering out my kitchen window, which had a pretty decent view of the cabin despite the hovering, colorless, shadows of eerily grey and green pine trees. Sometimes it scared me how trees have such an impact on the ground with their dark torsos protruding over everything in sight. Acting as a cover to whatever may reside below it.  

The house was living in wasn’t home, it did act as a shield from the shadowy trees in the woods. 

It wasn’t until six days after our last encounter that I decided to once again confront the man. 

This time if he didn’t remember me, I could at least figure out an excuse to go into his house.  

Maybe then I could figure out what was going on.  

I slipped on some rain boots and a hoodie over my clothes and marched to the cabin with a plan of action in my pocket and a sense of purpose ringing in my ears.  

Knocking on the door with unwavering intent, I composed myself tall and undaunted by what may await me.  

The man answered with the same curiosity as last time. I could already tell by his puzzled expression that the situation from yesterday remained. “Do I know you?” He asked. “No, I just moved into the house across from yours. I was hoping you had an extra egg. My aunt was looking to make some cookies.” My cover story seemed to be played just right as he responded with “I’ll see what I have...You can come inside if you’d like.”  

Bullseye!  

We had a steady aim.  

I headed inside the color-filled house. The man, once standing guard at his door now hobbled over at a leisurely pace to his fridge. As he did so, I noticed his complexation was more grey, dimmer than the first encounters I had with him. He was even frailer than he was as well.  

He fumbled through the fridge for a long minute before he clicked his tongue and said “Sorry boy, Nothing but stale milk. I must’ve forgotten to go to the grocery store.” 

Mentally I made a note; “Can’t remember daily tasks just as much as he can’t remember faces.” 

This note made led me to a mental question; Has he been eating? When I thought about it, it didn’t look like he was in any condition to even remember how to drive to a store. I scanned over his kitchen and my eyes narrowed in on a couple of months' worth of different-sized cans peeking out from behind cabinets. They ranged from canned peas to assorted soups. He must’ve been living off canned foods this whole time.

I concluded my mental note with; “Cook something for the stranger in the cabin.” 

I decided to focus my attention on getting the man’s name next. 

The man, disappointed from his empty travels to the fridge, sat down at a small, rounded kitchen table with two blue-painted stools. 

 “Could I ask you for your name?” The man gave me an uneasy sense of hesitation before muttering, “Thomas. What’s yours?” “I’m Cam, Cameron was my dad’s name” The man focused his gaze somewhere on his decorated wall as he replied, “What was your dad’s favorite color?” That reply caught me off guard. I half expected the typical "oh sorry" or "I’m sure he was a great man" but I decided to go along with it and respond as best as I could “I think it was a darker green” The man laughed a bit “A good choice! Your old man must’ve like to see every aspect of nature, and tell adventurous stories that unravel with mystery just as I do.” Suddenly Thomas looked a little more colorful talking about colors, Ironically enough.

 I decided it wouldn’t hurt to continue the conversation. 

So, we did.  

We continued our long color-filled talks, and I even learned to create window art as he had done with his broken window. I was right about not being good with tools; however, I wasn’t that terrible at mashing up the glass with a hammer.  

And I managed to bring a few extra jelly sandwiches over when I went. 

Progressively, as the weeks went by, I noticed the man deteriorate more and more. Despite my jelly sandwich rescue efforts, Thomas perceived me as strange every time I entered his house. Some days, he was so distraught that I had to convince him to even let me in his house.  

By Mid-July, If Thomas wanted to eat- I had to help him do so 

I helped him with most simple things; going to the bathroom, basic hygiene, or even walking.” 

I felt bad for him and I didn't mind the effort. 

This continued for about another week. Until another uncanny wind storm arrived. 

I had decided that before heading over to Thomas’s house that I’d call a nearby nursing facility to come get him. I knew that a 15-year-old kid could only do so much for an aging man that didn’t even remember his name. And as much as I had grown to enjoy discussing colors, it wasn’t my place to talk about colors forever.  

Something told me that the premise, used to define forever was about to become a lot more condensed when I opened a stranger's cabin door one last time to see Thomas, lifeless on the floor. 

I panicked at first. But I knew the nurses would be there promptly for an unexpected addition to their job to tell me a story of how a man with Alzheimer's collapsed within his cabin.

And I also knew as the wind hammered on the colorful cabin with a stranger encased within, I would come to appreciate my cabin hole-in-one for the masterpiece it was.

 And I would come to know that stranger who wasn't so much a stranger, as he was someone who taught me that there's color in this colorless pinewood forest.