BB Grey–musings

“The snow fell soft as memory, blanketing the world outside, while the fire within whispered her name—Jacklyn, the spark that never fades.”

The last-minute bustle had swept through town like a fevered wind. Shelves at the local grocery stood barren, picked clean by hands clutching canned goods and bread. Firewood was hauled indoors in armloads, generators coughed to life—those who could afford them testing the hum, topping off fuel cans with a slosh and a prayer. Shovels leaned by doorways, ready for battle, and candles sat beside matchbooks, waiting for the inevitable flicker of outage. The electric company always cut the power when the gusts rose, when branches swayed like brittle threats over sagging lines, risking sparks and flame.

Arthur ushered Rusty inside, his German long-haired pointer padding across the threshold with a quiet dignity. He knelt by the hearth, coaxing a fire to life. “Looks like snow’s coming,” he muttered, his voice a low rumble, and Rusty cocked his brows in silent accord. The dog stretched out, paws splayed, his muzzle resting atop them, eyes fixed on Arthur as the flames caught, licking the sap-soaked logs. Tiny bursts—sharp as cap-gun pops—crackled through the room, and Rusty’s ears twitched, a faint jolt rippling through his frame before he settled again, warming his flank against the orange glow.

The living room bore the rough-hewn grace of cedar panels, wide planks standing tall, 12 to 14 inches across, their knots and whorls a map Arthur knew by heart. He’d laid them years ago with Jacklyn, her deft hands steadying each board as he drove the nails. The scent still clung—potpourri of cedar, spice, a whisper of pine and oak—mingling with the trees beyond the walls, alive, while inside, the wood stood as tombstones, silent sentinels of memory. She’d been his pulse, his Jacklyn. Always game for his whims, she’d thrown herself into their days with a vigor he could never rival, her laughter a current that pulled him along. He’d blamed her for the creases fanning his eyes, carved by her endless gift of smiles—then, after she was gone, he’d cursed himself for the deeper lines etched by grief, the wince that shadowed his face when her absence pressed too close.

The walls bore her touch still: curios from yard sales, antiquing treasures she’d plucked from the clutter of other lives. Jacklyn had an eye for the diamond in the rough—she’d spot it sidelong, dart toward it with a cry of “This is perfect!” Arthur would turn the thing over, squinting for its shape, its purpose, and ask, “What is it?” She always knew—its history, its use, spilling details like a magpie with a hoard of trivia. He loved that about her, the way she carried scraps of the world in her mind. Once, at a friend’s table, a trivia game had tossed out, “Me and you and my dog named…” and before anyone could blink, she’d belted, “Boo!” Heads swiveled—Boo? What?—and she’d grinned, singing a snatch of melody, some old tune with that exact line. They’d all gaped, dumbfounded, but Arthur just thought, Who cares where it came from? She’s mine.

The fire snapped again, and Rusty shifted, angling his chilled side toward the heat, his gaze still tethered to Arthur. The man eased back into his leather chair, worn smooth where his calves rubbed the seat’s edge, where his palms pressed the arms. The leather gleamed a deeper bronze there, darker than the rest, pinned with brass rivets to walnut-stained mahogany legs—a throne of habit, softened by years. Smoke curled upward, coaxing the cedar walls to life, their hues shifting in the glow, perfuming the air with a warmth that felt almost sacred.

Outside, snow began its descent, hushed and deliberate, tracing the world’s edges in white. It draped the pines, the sills, blanketing flaws in a tender shroud. The windowpanes fogged at their borders, framing a snow-globe scene—shaken, stirred, settling slow and soft.

Arthur’s eyelids drooped, his mind drifting to a half-dream where Jacklyn waited, her presence as real as the fire’s heat. It was a refuge she’d built for him, a comfort only she could weave, and he sought it now as he always did—visiting her in the quiet, missing her in the marrow. Rusty twitched beside him, paws jerking in pursuit of some phantom rabbit, his dream as vivid as Arthur’s, as distant as the storm’s far edge.

The snow thickened beyond the glass, a patient tide, and the fire burned steady. Man and dog slipped deeper into their twinned reveries, held by the cabin’s embrace—Arthur with Jacklyn’s laughter echoing soft, Rusty with the scent of earth and chase. The storm would come, and they would wait it out together, tethered by memory and the slow pulse of living on.

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