Etched in the Wood

The gravel crunched beneath my tires as I climbed the long winding drive, the soft puffs of dust swirling in the warm, golden air. It was late afternoon — that hour when the light poured over the mountains in Blue Ridge like melted butter, and the whole world seemed to hush, waiting for something sacred.

I knew this driveway by heart. Every twist and bend, every place where the rain carved little rivulets through the stones. It was like tracing a familiar scar with your fingers — old, worn, but still tender somehow.

And then, there it was: the cabin.

The stained wood glowed in the afternoon sun, rich and deep, as if it had soaked up every sunset that had ever kissed its walls. The tin roof shimmered a soft green against the sky, almost blending with the tops of the trees. It was the kind of place that looked like it had grown out of the mountain itself, planted there with care and patience.

The front porch wrapped around the house like an embrace, wide and welcoming, with rocking chairs that swayed lazily in the breeze. Part of the porch was screened in — my favorite spot — where you could sit and listen to the world wake up in the morning or settle into dreams at night without a single mosquito bite.

I parked under the old oak tree and sat for a moment, just breathing. The air was thick with the scent of pine and fresh earth, tinged with something sweeter — muscadines, ripening on their tangled vines by the garden beds.

My grandparents’ garden was a marvel. Huge beds bursting with tomatoes, beans, squash, peppers. It was wild and orderly all at once, a place where bees buzzed drunkenly and hummingbirds darted like tiny, jeweled arrows between the feeders strung up around the porch.

Grandma made the best jam from the muscadines. Thick and rich, tasting of late summer and love, sealed into mason jars lined up like soldiers on the pantry shelves. I could still feel the pop of the jar opening, the sticky spoonful on fresh biscuits she would pull from the oven without even glancing at a recipe.

I climbed the steps — careful, because I knew exactly which board creaked — and pressed my hand against the old wooden rail, worn smooth from years of hands just like mine. The screen door whined a familiar greeting as I pulled it open, and for a moment, I was a child again: racing up the drive, sunburned and breathless, desperate to reach this little kingdom in the sky.

Inside, it smelled the same as it always had. Clean and woody, a little spicy from the pine walls and floors. Somewhere deep inside, coffee was brewing, even if no one was drinking it. That smell just belonged here — like the sound of Granddaddy’s laughter rolling up from the basement workshop.

I drifted down the stairs, my hand trailing along the smooth wood of the banister, until I reached the workshop door. It was cracked open, just enough to let out the scent of sawdust and oil and something else — the sharp, bittersweet smell of memories.

Inside, the workshop was a world of its own. Tools hung neatly on pegboards, jars of screws and nails lined the shelves. A half-built birdhouse sat on the workbench, surrounded by curls of wood shavings like little sleeping cats.

And then — the post.

In the far corner, a thick wooden beam rose from floor to ceiling, scarred and sacred. Etched into the wood were our names, our ages, our heights, each set of markings a frozen moment in time. Some were low to the ground — the years we could barely stand on our own. Some were higher, reaching up toward the rafters — the years we thought we were invincible.

I found my name, traced the letters with my finger. I could almost hear Granddaddy’s voice in my ear, chuckling as he marked another notch, another year, another inch. His calloused hand ruffling my hair, his blue eyes crinkling with pride.

I stood there for a long time, just breathing it in. The smell, the weight of the years pressed into that post, the ghost of a child’s giggle echoing faintly against the walls.

Outside, a soft hum broke the stillness — the hummingbirds at their feeders, battling for space, flashing their bright throats like living jewels. Beyond them, the four-wheeler tracks wound away into the woods, worn deep into the earth by endless summers of riding and laughter and scraped knees.

I remembered the way we used to race, flying over bumps and around trees, the wind tearing at our shirts and the world blurring into a green and golden smear. Granddaddy always said we looked like a pack of wild things, half-feral and free, the mountain wrapping us in its arms and letting us run.

Now the tracks were overgrown in places, swallowed by the creeping reach of the woods. Time softens everything if you let it.

I wandered back up to the porch and sank into one of the rocking chairs. It creaked a low, familiar welcome under my weight. I let it rock me, slow and easy, like it had a hundred times before.

The view stretched out in front of me, a rolling sea of blue and green, the mountains rising and falling like the chest of a sleeping giant. The sky above was a wild, aching blue, the kind of color that hurts to look at too long.

I thought about all the summers here, all the winters too — the way the frost would glitter on the branches, the way the fire would crackle and pop inside while the wind howled outside. I thought about Grandma’s hands, gentle and strong, tying back tomato plants and stirring pots on the stove. About Granddaddy’s slow, steady way of speaking, the way he built everything to last.

I thought about how no matter how far I wandered, no matter how much the world changed around me, this place stayed the same.

Rooted.

Unmoving.

Waiting.

The light began to change, sinking lower, gilding the trees, casting long shadows across the porch. Somewhere inside, the clock chimed softly — six bells — and the hummingbirds danced one last frantic ballet before the dark.

I closed my eyes and breathed it all in: the pine, the muscadines, the memory of laughter hanging in the thick summer air.

And for a little while longer, as the sun slipped away behind the mountains and the stars blinked awake one by one, I belonged to this place.

And it belonged to me.