Two weeks ago I was here at the cabin writing about how two weeks from then, I'd be in Paris. It didn't work out that way. The result of having to postpone the trip left me with this weekend open, and well, here I am back at the cabin. And happy to be here.
Being at the cabin is like spending time with my father. If I could. I feel him here, see him here, see results of his work and his heart and his dreams here. This place is saturated with him and that's perfect. I have 20 years of memories here. I recall him at every spot. In the kitchen preparing his oysters, on the porch admiring the land, at the bar preparing his martini, downstairs in his workshop, outside setting out the sprinklers, taking the golf cart out for a 'cocktail cruise' with Mom, preparing the rods to go fishing, cooking the fish from the day's catch. And sitting in his chair at the dining table. So many dinners I had beside him at the table. So many mornings we sat across from each other, drinking our coffee and reading the newspaper while everyone else was sleeping. I'd look up at him sitting across from me and smile at him because those quiet morning hours we shared were so precious to me, the time that I had with him before the house came to life with the family and conversation. I look at that chair now and though it is empty, his was such a presence that I feel him there. I miss him so much it chokes my heart and yet when I look at this chair, I can breathe again. How I wish he was sitting in it right now. How I do wish that.