Yesterday I received news our (extended) family’s cabin burned down overnight. The place we spent summers as children with the bunk beds where we giggled to each other in the dark. The shower that spurted spiders and rust when you first turned the faucet. The kitchen with so much bustling, morning pancakes and evening potatoes. The big, round, wooden table where we squeezed two to a bench and played countless rounds of Hearts. The deck where inchworms crawled beside sweating gin & tonics. The rocking wicker chairs from which Grandma and Grandpa oversaw our days. The phone that told of arrivals and news from the world, like the day Princess Diana died. The stairs we had to crawl under, among spiders and other creepy-crawlies, to retrieve the spare key. The window wells where we found countless toads and frogs. The daybeds we turned into forts, from which we watched Disney VHSs, the same wholesome tales for years. The reliable old hats and sweaters we borrowed to ward off horse flies or chilly evening breezes. The placemats and straw paper-plate holders and toaster that had almost certainly been there since my mother’s childhood. The marks on the wall showing my cousins’ yearly growth. The sliding screen door that slammed all day as people moved from deck to kitchen to deck to dock. The old cowbell they used to call us from the lake for dinner, ironic and earnest all at once. The walls that absorbed decades of our family’s comings and goings, whispers and shouts, laughter and tears. All ash.
I’ve been thinking lately about spaces and the way they paint themselves onto us as much as we paint ourselves onto them. Generations of children made this place a happy one, and whatever comes next will surely develop a personality of its own, but it can never replicate or replace that which burned in the night. At the same time, no flame can consume the totality of a place that lives in pieces scattered across so many hearts.
Gone, never forgotten. RIP beloved cabin.