The Man

He lives in one of the finest houses on top of the finest hills in this fine little town. His mother had owned every grocery store between here and the middle of nowhere. She had been an innovative woman in her time, turning her father's little corner store that sold penny candies and fine cigars behind a plate glass counter into a one-stop shopping center. And then another. And another. Her bakery fresh breads were regionally famous and she had insisted on training the bakers at each store personally how to knead the dough. He could picture her now in her long white apron with flour on her grizzled old cheeks, punching huge holes into the thick dough then pulling it apart, folding it over and massaging it into perfection. Everyone had known his mother. When she had died there had been white lilies on her coffin that strangers had put there because they had known they were her favourites. He had always thought she would prefer roses.
His house is the white one that looks down on the town from it's wide empty porch, which is just as it should be. The original architect had wanted the back of the house to face the escarpment and the front porch to face the street. This would naturally afford his family the best sunlight and lend itself to a generally friendly demeanor. His mother had - rather famously - asked the architect;
"And how am I to look down on my town with those measly little windows?"
The architect had done as he was told because he was being paid better than top dollar to do as he was told. The man - who was then still a boy - had asked whether or not he could have the bedroom over the porch, the green one with the window seat and it's own cubby underneath the third floor stairs where he could make himself a tent. She had said no, so the boy had done what he was told and took the bedroom in the attic with the floor that creaked and the faint sound of scratching in the night that he knew meant mice or worse. He had done what he was told even though he was not paid top dollar - but even then he had known that someday he would be. His bedroom had been wallpapered in a cowboy theme, and his quilt had cowboys on them and his lampbase was a cowboy rearing back on his horse, gun waving madly about. This was not the man's bedroom anymore.
When his mother had died he took her room from her, although he didn't think it had ever really been her room. He painted it back to it's original green, put wooden shutters on the window and a leather chair by the fire. He even felt as though he should perhaps smoke a pipe for this auspicious occasion. He walked about his big, echoing house in the dark, pipe in hand that first night with his real room, and saw all of the grand parties that would soon be. He saw a pool table in the lounge, a dance floor in the long dark dining hall - there was even a place for a band to set up by the hearth! He saw a pool in the acres and acres of green that stretched before him and beside him. Mostly, though, he felt happy just knowing his mother's great terrible shadow had passed. He felt drawn to her rocking chair on her porch, which was angled perfectly to catch small children who might be trying to play in the woods she called her own down the hill. As he rocked, the lights twinkled obediantly before him in the fading sun. The town was settling in and waking up at the same time, leaving work behind to face the different work of the evening.
He felt proud of this town, arrogantly so. It never changed. It never would. Looking down the hill his eyes fell again to the little cottage just below him. His eyes often fell to this cottage, perhaps because it looked so inviting or perhaps because no one seemed to live there - although he had noticed smoke curling up from it's tiny chimney often enough. It is a greyish colour, the sort that seems to have sprung naturally from the earth. There is something, he thinks, something so - mysterious. Appealing - quiet about this house. It sits on the edge of a fairly public path, the sort that sees dog-walkers and runners and teens full of hormones alike. Perhaps he should walk that path. Perhaps tomorrow he will venture down his hill...