She threw on a sweater as she walked out the door, bristling at the chill already in the air at the beginning of Autumn. It was the breeze drifting across the sea and rolling over the hills around the cottage causing the bone deep early morning cold. The sun was nowhere to be found, masked by slate gray clouds stretched far out over the horizon. The silhouette of a smokey mitten footed cat, who had claimed her as his own some months ago, leapt up onto the windowsill to bid her farewell.
There wasn’t a soul in sight except for Mr. Campbell’s flock of sheep out for their morning graze. She thought to herself how odd it was so many people had forgotten the art of letting themselves get lost among the wonder of the Earth. And how beautiful it is to draw fresh air into your lungs and run each finger over fuzzy flower petals and moss covered bark. She pulled her arms in so close to her sides they dug into her ribs, shoving her hands deep into the recesses of her quilted jacket pockets. There would be a fire later with a cup of hot tea and a book, the cat curled up on her shoulder so she could rest her head against him the way he liked. They would nod off like this together just before it was time for lunch and awaken when their bellies grumbled.
The road was quiet in the early hours of the morning. Only the promise of time alone, completely to oneself with no expectations, could coax a person out of bed who had no other reason to be awake. After an hour her feet began to tire and she found respite from the aches in her body sitting down by a bubbling stream. It was the same one she found herself drawn to as a child on those long walks with her father into town. He wore one of those thick, creamy sweaters synonymous with Ireland, though his was worn with holes through the years. Her mother patched up the elbows more than once, sitting down next to a blazing fire in the hearth with a needle and thread.
When her small legs got tired he took a seat on a large rock and patted the space beside him for her to join. He shared stories of the land, old folk tales passed down from his father and his father’s father. The very same rock she rested her back against now had begun to feel less lonely each time she visited. If she sat quietly enough, let her breathing slow and steady, she could almost hear her father’s whispers among the rustle of leaves and flowing water. Parts of him were easiest to find out amongst the wild woods.
The Rummy Writer 