The Distance Between

The old man stood on the porch of the cabin, his weathered hands resting on the railing. Beyond him stretched acres of pastureland, dotted with stubborn oaks and bordered by jagged mountains. A soft breeze carried the scent of wild sage and damp earth, whispering through the tall grass.

At his feet, a scruffy black-and-white dog lay sprawled, one ear perked as it dozed in the late afternoon sun. The old man gave the dog a gentle nudge with his boot.

“Lester,” he muttered, his voice rough but kind. “Company’s here.”

The dog yawned, stretched, and then trotted down the steps, tail wagging as the truck pulled up. Nick parked a few yards away, the tires crunching over the gravel. He stepped out, his frame taller now, shoulders broader. He noticed the dog first, its bright eyes watching him with curiosity.

“Who’s this?” Nick asked, nodding toward the dog.

“Lester,” the old man said. “Got him a few years back. Good worker, better company.”

Nick crouched, holding out a hand. Lester padded over, sniffed it, and gave a single wag of approval before trotting back to the old man’s side.

“You still keeping it up, huh?” Nick said, rising to his feet and gesturing toward the land.

The old man grunted, a slight nod his only response. “Somebody’s got to,” he said after a pause, his voice like gravel rolling through a rusted pipe. “Figured you’d be too busy for this old place.”

Nick jammed his hands into his pockets and looked past the cabin toward the hills. The light was golden now, draping everything in a soft glow. He let the silence stretch a beat longer than he’d meant to. “Figured you’d have let it go by now,” he said, his tone sharper than he intended.

“Not my way,” the old man replied, leaning against the porch post. “This land’s got its own rhythm. You don’t just leave it behind.”

Nick sighed, his boots crunching against the gravel as he approached the steps. The boards creaked under his weight, each step filling the quiet between them. “I guess I never got it. Why you cared so much about it. The land doesn’t care about you, does it?”

The old man laughed—a short, dry sound. Lester tilted his head, as if amused by the exchange. “Maybe not. But it’s not about what the land gives me. It’s about what I give it. You think those fences fix themselves? You think the creek keeps running clear without someone clearing the silt?” He gestured toward the horizon. “It doesn’t owe me anything, boy. That’s the point.”

Nick hesitated, feeling the weight of the old man’s words settle like a stone in his chest. “So why’d you ask me to come back? If it doesn’t owe you anything, I sure don’t either.”

The old man’s expression softened, the hard lines in his face shifting for the briefest moment. His gaze lingered on the horizon, as though weighing his next words. “I didn’t ask you here for me,” he said. “You’re gonna inherit all this one day. Figured you ought to see it before it’s too late.”

The breeze picked up, rustling the leaves overhead. Lester wandered off, sniffing at the edge of the porch, his tail swishing lazily.

“Come here,” the old man said finally, his voice softer now, beckoning Nick to follow. They moved around the cabin, down a path hidden by towering oaks. The air here was cooler, damp with the scent of moss and earth. They stopped at the edge of a creek, where a narrow wooden bridge spanned the water. The planks were warped and weathered, but the structure stood strong, its beams stained dark with age.

Nick paused, taking it in. “I didn’t know this was here,” he said, his voice edged with surprise.

The old man stepped onto the bridge, his boots creaking against the wood. He ran a hand along the railing, gazing out at the water below. The creek flowed softly, its surface catching the last light of day.

“Built it long before you were born,” the old man said, his voice quiet. “Your mother loved this spot. Used to sit right here and listen to the water while I worked.”

He let out a slow breath.

“She said it sounded like a song.”

Nick followed him onto the bridge, the boards groaning under his boots. He glanced at the old man, watching the way his fingers lingered on the railing. There was something unspoken in the way he stood there, his shoulders set but not stiff.

The old man finally turned to Nick, his face softened by the fading light. “Some things stick with you, boy,” he said. “Even after they’re gone.”

Nick didn’t know what to say. He watched the water, its quiet flow mirroring the thoughts swirling inside him. For the first time, he felt something shift—a faint tug, as if he were standing at the edge of a memory that wasn’t his, but somehow belonged to him.

Lester splashed through the shallows, shaking droplets into the air. The old man chuckled softly, and for a moment, Nick saw a flicker of the man he used to be—a father who once carried him on his shoulders, who whistled tunes while mending fences.

They returned to the porch as the sun dipped below the hills, leaving a wash of pink and purple across the sky. Nick sank onto the steps, the boards creaking softly beneath him. Lester curled up at his feet, letting out a low, contented sigh.

The old man sat in his usual spot, resting his hands on his knees. “You’ll get it one day,” he said quietly, his gaze fixed on the horizon. “This land’s got a rhythm. You just gotta listen for it.”

Nick didn’t reply. He didn’t need to. Words had never been their way.

The land filled the silence—the hum of crickets, the faint rush of the creek, the rhythm of something unspoken but always understood.

It wasn’t much. But it was enough.

NOTE:

This story came out of me thinking about the distance we sometimes feel with the people we love—whether it’s physical, emotional, or just the gap that time creates. I’ve been reflecting on family a lot lately, and Neil Young’s 'Old Man' helped spark the idea for The Distance Between. It’s about what goes unsaid, and how sometimes words aren’t needed.

I don’t know if this story will turn into something bigger—maybe it’s a book, maybe just a scene—but I’d love to know what you think. Does it feel complete, or do you want more?

Either way, thanks for reading.