She pulled up slowly; the gravel popping beneath each turned tire. And there she saw it. He had found this spot some years ago, bare: what he took as a kind gesture from nature, a welcome invitation to settle among the towering knotty pines. It was a hardy build, constructed from eastern white pine, kiln dried, its dovetail corner notching a work of his own hands--a practice he was taught by his father who along with the skill, shared the tender story of its assumed origin, one of a farmer who sat, marveling at the wedge-shaped tails of some neighborly doves. It was a simple technique, and a simple means for a father and son to bond.
From the interlocking hand-cut joints of boxes, to dresser drawers, to the logs of his own home, the size of his projects grew with time, as he had with age. There was much he could do for himself, and that which he couldn't merely filled a thimble--something he neither owned nor would ever know existed. She still longed for the days before his hard-working hands, once smooth, turned calloused and cracked; it seemed both she and his leather gloves became a cozy luxury--something his simple life could do without. But for as much as he didn't need her, she was still in need of him. Yet she sat alone, staring down the narrow drive that led to him; the steady stream of smoke pouring from the flue being the closest to him she would get.
