The White Cabin

As I first remember it the cabin was golden
With pitch bubbling from beneath the clear varnish
A lovely scent.
Daddy painted it over, white.
“It was peeling, it was too hard to care for,” Mommy said.

Bad for the career, this place was, in the back end of beyond
But there were endless chances to wander the woods
And hunt with Moses who didn’t shoot and Tiny who couldn’t,
Coffee with all the men of town
At Goldie’s each dark winter morning before work
Quiet talk, laughter, and the smell of somebody’s Lucky
As the horizon began to brighten.

Even the time when the canoe rolled
On Sportsmen’s Pond (where he helped to build the dam)
And he had to swim for it,
Lost his rod and tackle box, and sneaked to the school
Dried his clothes in the dryer in Home Ec so Mommy wouldn’t know
(though of course she did)
Seemed to be fun, looking back, by the light in his eyes
When he told the story.

Away was better, I suppose,
Away and away again, better,
A good career, I suppose, before the end.

The cabin is still there,
Still painted white, just as we left it.