Cabin

It starts on the drive up. The road narrows, the pines lean in, and the last bar on your phone gives up somewhere in the shade before the turning. Nobody in the car minds. The dog has his head out of the window and has known where we're going since the second cattle grid.

A thunderstorm comes through most afternoons and is gone in twenty minutes. Afterwards the whole place smells of wet pine and warm stone, the porch boards steam a little, and everything is greener than it was an hour ago.

The days fill themselves. A kayak out before the water wakes up, a rod off the end of the dock, a hike up the ridge that takes twice as long as anyone said it would. The chocolate lab swims whether or not anyone asked him to, and shakes himself dry against the nearest pair of legs.

Then the long afternoon on the porch. The tiles come out, the light starts to go, and somebody gets the fire going without being asked. Cocoa on the stove, marshmallows found at the back of a cupboard, s'mores made badly and eaten anyway. The dog gives up on the day and stretches out where the heat is.

One more game. There is always one more game. The fire drops to coals, somebody adds a log rather than admit the evening is over, and the last hand is played to the sound of the wind moving through the pines.

Where would your cabin be, and who would you bring?