I don’t know Mack, never had the pleasure of meeting the man, but I have had ample time to enjoy his cabin tucked a stick throw from the road that starts where my driveway ends.
For some reason Mack either took, or was given the smallest of the three cabins. The yellow autumn leaves cling to the small flat roof. It has one room with double weathered doors to welcome the summer’s warmth. A man or woman really needs little more.
The window of the door has been replaced twice where I’ve seen the black and white tabby climb through. The clean glass appears out of place on the old structure.
I often wonder if Mack’s place was really a hideaway, or a place to be found.
I’ve thought about asking the neighbors about Mack but decided that I would rather have the twisted cedar shingles speak for him…I’ll miss those conversations.