The Cabin

A small rustic cabin sits alone in the middle of the woods, miles from the nearest town. It has been uninhabited for as long as anyone can remember. The ground has fallen away from the foundations, and two wooden planks leaning against the empty door frame are the only way to cross the waterless moat that surrounds the dilapidated shack.  Years of neglect have left the plank siding warped and stained, yet glass window panes remain miraculously intact, and the building’s structure belies the builder’s knowledge and care.

         If one were to cross the teetering planks and cross the threshold to enter the small room that was once a home, one would see little evidence of the people who once lived here. A large, gaping hole fills one half of the room where the floor has collapsed into the dark cellar below. Pieces of a narrow stairwell still cling to the far wall. An old blanket and a number of opened tin cans clutter one corner of the front room, probably left by a solitary vagrant on his way through. There is a door in the middle of the back wall leading into what was likely once a small bedroom.  Looking closely at the wall in one corner very near the floor, you might notice a few small black, charcoal-like scratches that look remarkably like a family of stick people, telling a story of children who color on walls.  There is a small area to the left of the door frame where what may have been the family dog scratched the wood bare begging to be let outside.

         I stand alone in a small clearing near the house, squinting into the sun which is setting just above the roof line. The wind blows the hair across my face and as I brush it away, the house seems changed. The dirt has closed in around the cellar walls, and the planks are no longer there. The wooden siding is a dark golden brown, as though freshly stained. The trees, which thickly surrounded the building only a moment ago have retreated, giving the house a small yard. A face appears in an upstairs window, a child with an impish grin seems to giggle as it rushes away again from the glass. The front door opens and a woman steps out. She is carrying a basket under one arm full of what appears to be laundry. I notice a long clothesline stretching from a point on the roof to a nearby tree. The woman has long, gray brown hair hanging in a long braid down the back of her ankle length rose-colored dress. She is young, and plainly beautiful. As she turns to close the door behind her, her eyes meet mine. She smiles as though amused, and I feel somehow calmed and humiliated. She knows more at her age, than I will ever learn in my lifetime. She slowly walks away from me down a worn path leading away from the house toward the clothesline. And then she is gone, and I am alone.