Post by everydan on Oct 31, 2023 16:49:41 GMT -5
The night was gray and sharp. Gravel crunched beneath Ichabod's boots as he climbed the hill. Ahead of him, behind the thick fog, a fire burned. Home.
The Ellers' cabin stood at the end of a long road, and the forest had been threatening to swallow it up for years. Ichabod's great-grandfather had built it, and though the man had died long before Ichabod was born, seeing the hand-hewn logs and that bright lantern on the front porch made Ichabod feel connected, somehow, to the Ellers that'd come before. It wasn't a big house. Far from it. But the sight of it, a shadow in the fog, comforted Ichabod- and filled him with pride.
Ichabod heard his grandfather before he saw him. The slow, rhythmic creak of the rocking chair. The soft cough. And the low drawling voice. "Long day today, hm?"
"Was," Ichabod agreed. The front stairs creaked beneath him as he stepped up onto the porch. Ichabod reached into the pocket of his heavy work jacket and pulled out a plastic baggie. He held it out to his grandfather.
"What's this?" the old man asked. Shaky hands reached out to take the parcel. Unfolding the plastic, the man let out a dry chuckle. But the smile quickly faded from his lips, and he held the package back towards Ichabod. "You ought not'a bought this, boy. Money's needed for more important than stuff than my--"
"I want you to have it," Ichabod interrupted. "What'd I carve you that pipe for if you're not gonna smoke? Go on."
After a bit more quibbling, Ichabod's grandfather finally sighed and relented. He leaned back in his rocking chair and pulled out a small wooden pipe. Opening the plastic baggie, he pinched out a handful of the tobacco and sprinkled it into the pipe. Then, he patted down his pockets.
"Don't got matches on me."
Ichabod took the pipe gently from his grandfather and strode over to the lantern swinging from the pole by the door. When he turned back to his grandfather, the pipe was lit.
"Ah!" Ichabod's grandfather said with a twinkle in his eye as he took the pipe in his hands. "Good lad."
As his grandfather enjoyed his first few puffs, Ichabod leaned against the railing on the front porch and peered down the street. It was a cold night, the sort where all you wanted to do was sit inside by the fire, under a heavy blanket. And yet he could hear voices and see shapes moving through the fog. Yet Ichabod lingered. He always felt like he had more sawdust than air in his lungs after a shift at the sawmill. He breathed in the crisp, cold air, and let it fill him.
"Promise me something, boy," Ichabod's grandfather said, pulling him from his reverie.
"Anything."
"Never smoke."
Ichabod turned back to look at his grandfather. With a slight smile, he crossed his arms. "But you make it look so fun."
The old man chuckled. The chuckle turned to a cough. "What'd this cost you? I'll pay you back."
"Forget about it," Ichabod says.
"I'm serious, Ichabod. Your wages ought to go towards food and water. Clothes for the girls."
"There's nothing wrong with a little treat here and there," Ichabod answered.
"Aye, you say that, but when's the last time you got something for yourself? Or did something for yourself? I haven't heard you practicing your guitar at all lately."
"I've been busy. Jax has been out sick, so I've been able to pick up some of his hours at the mill. Between that and school, I haven't had time to-"
"To be a kid," his grandfather interrupted. "It isn't right."
Ichabod groaned and looked up at the rafters above him. Carpenter bees had made their homes in the wood slats of the covered porch.
"Maybe not," Ichabod allowed. "But if that means Adalia gets a shot, then I'm fine with it."
"I think Adalia would be just as happy to have her brother around as she'd be to 'have a shot'. She misses you."
"She'll understand when she's a little older," Ichabod muttered. "Where is she now?"
"Asleep. And so's your mother. Ichabod, you leave for school before the sun comes up, you get home after midnight. You tell yourself it'll be worth it and that you can slow down and enjoy your life someday down the line, but I'm here to tell you, that day doesn't come. It doesn't. Not unless you carve it out. Your father never did. That man worked himself right into the grave, telling himself he'd rest when that day finally rolled around."
"It came for you," Ichabod answered, nodding at his grandfather where he sat, rocking on the porch, puffing a pipe.
"I wish it hadn't," his grandfather shot back. "God, I wish it hadn't. If he hadn't had to take me in, maybe your father wouldn't have had to work during quarantine... And maybe he wouldn't have caught it... And then you wouldn't have to--"
"It's fine, Grandpa," Ichabod cut in, not unkindly. "Forget I said anything. I didn't mean anything like that."
"I know you didn't, boy. Don't make it any less true, though."
In the low firelight, Ichabod could see the wet streaks on his grandfather's face.
"Go on," the old man said softly. "Get some sleep. Long day again tomorrow."
The Ellers' cabin stood at the end of a long road, and the forest had been threatening to swallow it up for years. Ichabod's great-grandfather had built it, and though the man had died long before Ichabod was born, seeing the hand-hewn logs and that bright lantern on the front porch made Ichabod feel connected, somehow, to the Ellers that'd come before. It wasn't a big house. Far from it. But the sight of it, a shadow in the fog, comforted Ichabod- and filled him with pride.
Ichabod heard his grandfather before he saw him. The slow, rhythmic creak of the rocking chair. The soft cough. And the low drawling voice. "Long day today, hm?"
"Was," Ichabod agreed. The front stairs creaked beneath him as he stepped up onto the porch. Ichabod reached into the pocket of his heavy work jacket and pulled out a plastic baggie. He held it out to his grandfather.
"What's this?" the old man asked. Shaky hands reached out to take the parcel. Unfolding the plastic, the man let out a dry chuckle. But the smile quickly faded from his lips, and he held the package back towards Ichabod. "You ought not'a bought this, boy. Money's needed for more important than stuff than my--"
"I want you to have it," Ichabod interrupted. "What'd I carve you that pipe for if you're not gonna smoke? Go on."
After a bit more quibbling, Ichabod's grandfather finally sighed and relented. He leaned back in his rocking chair and pulled out a small wooden pipe. Opening the plastic baggie, he pinched out a handful of the tobacco and sprinkled it into the pipe. Then, he patted down his pockets.
"Don't got matches on me."
Ichabod took the pipe gently from his grandfather and strode over to the lantern swinging from the pole by the door. When he turned back to his grandfather, the pipe was lit.
"Ah!" Ichabod's grandfather said with a twinkle in his eye as he took the pipe in his hands. "Good lad."
As his grandfather enjoyed his first few puffs, Ichabod leaned against the railing on the front porch and peered down the street. It was a cold night, the sort where all you wanted to do was sit inside by the fire, under a heavy blanket. And yet he could hear voices and see shapes moving through the fog. Yet Ichabod lingered. He always felt like he had more sawdust than air in his lungs after a shift at the sawmill. He breathed in the crisp, cold air, and let it fill him.
"Promise me something, boy," Ichabod's grandfather said, pulling him from his reverie.
"Anything."
"Never smoke."
Ichabod turned back to look at his grandfather. With a slight smile, he crossed his arms. "But you make it look so fun."
The old man chuckled. The chuckle turned to a cough. "What'd this cost you? I'll pay you back."
"Forget about it," Ichabod says.
"I'm serious, Ichabod. Your wages ought to go towards food and water. Clothes for the girls."
"There's nothing wrong with a little treat here and there," Ichabod answered.
"Aye, you say that, but when's the last time you got something for yourself? Or did something for yourself? I haven't heard you practicing your guitar at all lately."
"I've been busy. Jax has been out sick, so I've been able to pick up some of his hours at the mill. Between that and school, I haven't had time to-"
"To be a kid," his grandfather interrupted. "It isn't right."
Ichabod groaned and looked up at the rafters above him. Carpenter bees had made their homes in the wood slats of the covered porch.
"Maybe not," Ichabod allowed. "But if that means Adalia gets a shot, then I'm fine with it."
"I think Adalia would be just as happy to have her brother around as she'd be to 'have a shot'. She misses you."
"She'll understand when she's a little older," Ichabod muttered. "Where is she now?"
"Asleep. And so's your mother. Ichabod, you leave for school before the sun comes up, you get home after midnight. You tell yourself it'll be worth it and that you can slow down and enjoy your life someday down the line, but I'm here to tell you, that day doesn't come. It doesn't. Not unless you carve it out. Your father never did. That man worked himself right into the grave, telling himself he'd rest when that day finally rolled around."
"It came for you," Ichabod answered, nodding at his grandfather where he sat, rocking on the porch, puffing a pipe.
"I wish it hadn't," his grandfather shot back. "God, I wish it hadn't. If he hadn't had to take me in, maybe your father wouldn't have had to work during quarantine... And maybe he wouldn't have caught it... And then you wouldn't have to--"
"It's fine, Grandpa," Ichabod cut in, not unkindly. "Forget I said anything. I didn't mean anything like that."
"I know you didn't, boy. Don't make it any less true, though."
In the low firelight, Ichabod could see the wet streaks on his grandfather's face.
"Go on," the old man said softly. "Get some sleep. Long day again tomorrow."
