I Hate Being Alone

"I hate being alone!" She yelled at the top of her lungs from her doorway.

It was the same every morning. She would get up, open the wooden door to her cabin wrapped in a large brown over coat, stand on the tips of her bare toes and yell this epitaph at the valley below.The ritual would be the only pomp and circumstance that began her day.

Following her rousing display, she would start the fire in the wood stove; toss in a little kindling, stack the logs and strike a match. After setting the water to boil in the old grey kettle, she would slip into her clothes. Durable pants that were well worn, but in good repair. Depending on the weather she would layer with a sweater over her nondescript shirt. Breakfast was quietly eaten at the table, leading to the rinsing of her morning dishes quietly at the kitchen window.

The day was only varied by season. A quick walk around searching for Spring willows to gather budding leaves. A sunny Summer trek to the creek with her fishing gear for a few salmon to be divided between smoking and dinner for that night. The crisp Fall day hike to the open rolling hills to add meat to the pantry. A serene Winter expedition to the trap-lines, quiet and calming in an ethereal landscape.

Every evening she chopped logs to add to her wood pile. She would hunt for holes her in clothes and do her mending. She would repair the handles and tools, clean her rifle, add moss to the door jams to keep out the wind, fill the lamps with oil; what ever it took keep going, she did it.

The rain was coming down in sheets, with no pressing matters at hand, she grabbed the shovel she had set aside next to the stove and bookshelf. The handle had become loose from the blade and on her last trip to town she had picked up a couple bolts and nuts. As she raised the handle it dislodged the shelf from the wall. Down rained the small collection of books, like the weather outside the window.

Thinking of ways to shore up the shelf for the books, she started to pick up them up. Looking down on the two small stacks on the table she realized she was holding a thesaurus. Pausing, she sat down on the chair and started to thumb through the tome. With an idea driving her on she reached for the pad of paper and a pencil and began to write, momentarily forgetting the shovel.

The sun was just peaking through the clouds and the air smelled like clean fresh life, in only the way it can after a good rainy day. She got up, wrapped herself in the large overcoat, opened the wooden door and stood at the tips of her toes. "I love being...", her voice faltered  Her complete attention was focused and waiting, watching a tall figure in a long brown overcoat walking up the pathway to her cabin.