Voyage to the Cabin

The old log cabin looks like a big brown boulder in the middle of nowhere, sticking out of the sea of blinding white snow and tucked away in all of these tall, white birch trees. It’s been 2 years since I’ve made the long, bumpy 41 mile drive into this mountain. I’ve been so absorbed in my own life, working to get the partner promotion at the local law firm, that I’ve missed our annual and spur of the moment “voyages” to the cabin. I’ve constantly been searching for every possible angle to win cases for the lives of the clients that I defend, that I haven’t even given it a thought as to what fighting for my own life would entail, let alone trying to actually live it. At least that was the case until 3 weeks ago when I lost her. She was so funny and the wisest person I knew and she wasn’t just kind, she was empathetic and not only calm but, peaceful. You couldn’t help but, just feel better in her presence. It was like the rest of the world and worries just faded away like an early morning fog does when the sun peaks above these very mountains. She had an answer for everything, even to the most impossible questions and she didn’t just listen, she saw you. It was as if she could see everything you’ve tried so hard to keep hidden. There were no secrets with her, she knew everything, even the dark things you didn’t dare speak aloud for fear that they’d start existing outside of your body, as if it were contagious. Thirty five years with her wasn’t nearly enough time. I should’ve taken time off, asked more questions, been more present. My grandmother was everything to me. She was healthy until, one morning she was putting in the earrings I bought her for her birthday this June, and all of a sudden she felt a pinch in her neck. She thought maybe she had slept wrong until the pain migrated through her shoulder and the heart aneurism, we had no idea about, took her life before I could make it to the hospital.

This old cabin was left to me in the will. I’m not much for the country and she knew that. I’ve always loved the hustle and bustle of the city. All the lights, the restaurants, noise and music. Although, there always seemed to be something sad about it too. I guess hearing all that laughter can get lonely when you’re not apart of the joke. Sometimes, it was like being on the other side of a screen watching it all as if it were a movie. I think this is her way of telling me to unplug. It’s ironic though, that the fact that I wasn’t on my phone the day she died, is the reason we didn’t get our goodbye. I had been in court, therefore my phone was on silent, hence not making it to her in time. I don’t think I’ll ever forgive myself for that.

It’s just before dusk and I need to get inside and start a fire before the darkness parallels above the snow. I realize, with my hands still clutching the steering wheel, that I need some kind of barrier to place around my heart. I need to protect it from the salty tears I know will flow as soon as my feet noisily crunch the snow on the pathway to the raggedy stairs of the place I have not yet, stepped foot in without her. I blindly look around the car, as if there will be an actual barrier for this purpose, and then my hand stumbles on the bottle of vodka I had bought after her funeral. This will work I think, and I take a big swig for liquid courage. Then, as my eyes start to flood, I realize that one swig will not be enough and I take 3 more. The salt water vanishes as my throat burns and my whole body tingles with warmth. This warmth will do me much service as I step out into the freezing winter air.

I finally open the door and place my feet on the fresh glitter that’s still falling from the sky. Of course, I forgot my snow boots. That was the one thing that never failed to miss out on our many weekend trips here and her jokes about it were never ending.

The air steals my breath away. It’s sharp and fresh and smells of wet growing trees. I make the short trek from the car to the stairs, feet already icicles and soaking wet, and pick up a few chopped logs on the porch to take inside to start the fire. As I’m standing outside the old, wooden door, I hear a loud piercing screech come from inside. I tentatively open it and flip the light switch while making a mental note to call the power company and get things transferred. The light flickers and buzzes then finally holds true, thank God. I hear the screech again and it rattles me from head to toe that I drop all the wood, cursing as the logs fall on my toes. Perched there on the kitchen table is a pale, white faced barn owl with round dark eyes staring into mine. After a few long moments, the owl rattles its feathers as if a shiver passed right through it. We tilt heads at each other, questioning one another’s presence. Then, it spreads its wings and gracefully soars right over me out the open door as I sheepishly ducked out of the way feeling as though, I was the one intruding. I watch it fly until, it disappears into the darkness that has now fallen over the surrounding trees. I think of the story my Grandma used to read me as a child about a baby barn owl, curious about why he sounded different from other owls. The book itself wasn’t all that silly but, we would laugh until our bellies hurt as we tried to make our best owl hoots and screeches that we could muster. I snap out of my daze as the cold bites my skin to remind me that my feet need thawing out. I bend down to pick up the firewood, and as I reach for a piece that had rolled towards the open door, I see a card addressed to me. The card was laid against a red bow stuck to a pair of brand new snow boots. The card reads, “Because your feet must be freezing, Love Grandma.”