“Oldman” in the story is me, my father, or even my grandfather, could be all three

by A.C.

The memory of a certain smell made up of wood smoke, coffee, canvas, mountain air, rushing water, and trout frying in a pan, is like a spirit haunting me. This spirit calls out to me, calling me back to a place I can hardly wait to be.

I keep thinking about how it will feel to again drag a canoe up the bank of a river right before it gets dark. I can imagine the rich dark smells of a forest, rocks damp with spray from the river, mingled with the pungent warm smells of old canvas, a Coleman lantern, and a couple of large trout fillets sizzling toward crispy brown decadence.

 

In my mind's eye, an old man can be seen, sitting on a large rock beside the river with his back against a tree. He smiles at the day's last glancing rays of Sun as they fall across silvery water that is somehow both intense brightness, and deeply shadowed darkness, all at the same time.

 

He lowers his eyes toward the ground, as he contemplates this, and begins to think of how real beauty is almost always made of contrasting elements. 

 

His musing brings him thoughts of little children, laughing as they chase each other down the river bank. They are now grown, and some are far away, but they are all with him in this place nonetheless.

 

As the Sun just starts to slip below the ridge, he lifts his eyes and looks around this campsite he has used for nearly half a century. For a fleetingly brief moment, it is as if he can hear the laughter of those children, and can almost catch a glimpse of a happy little face looking up at him, hands stretched up to him sitting on this very same rock.

 

Awash in feelings made of both intense joy, and deep lonesome sadness, he looks again to the river, and while thinking again of contrasts, he thanks God for showing him the vastly complex beauty of love.