Like a Phoenix From the Ashes

"The cabin in the woods had been abandoned for years, but one night, a candle burned in the window."

I will never forget that night.

The landscape, once barren, cold, and desolate, was reawakened like a phoenix from the ashes. It all started with my Father’s. Ashes, yes.

Curious? I’d be worried if you weren’t.

The night was the thirty-first of October. All Hallows’ Eve. Or Halloween, as you probably know it. Whatever you call it, it was the anniversary of my Father’s death. A date which I was very happy to bury under mounds of mounds and peanut butter cups until I found myself succumbed to a sugar coma.

It had been 10 years since his passing, and yet he still took up space. Albeit a small one deep in the recesses of my closet, squashed between copies of Crochet Quarterly magazines and old newspapers. Through the years, I grew to like the placement even more. Putting ancient relics with other ancient relics just seemed right….

And there they all were, gathering dust.

It’s hard to believe you can live a full life—with happiness, heartbreak, laughter, and sorrow, and fit them all in a neat little box. It makes you think of life differently.

If we knew we were all going to end up there—either a box in a closet or a box in the ground—would we not live a life with a sense of urgency? Zest? Joi de vivre?

My Father had lost that sense of urgency long before he died. And I wanted to know why.

So I returned to the cabin in the woods that we knew, and walked again the sodden path to the now dilapidated building. The once gleaming cypress was rotten with age and had lost its sheen. The walkway was riddled with soft spots, and I was careful to not let my feet fall through.

But despite the exterior appearance, the inside was as remembered. The smell of dust, aged pine, and leather lingered in the air.

The sofa where Papa would read me my stories before dragging me begrudgingly to bed still sat steadfast in the middle of the living room, in front of the fireplace. A quick drag of my finger on the cracked, dried leather left a long trail of material between the dust, like I was Moses parting the red sea.

A lone candle sat on the table. I remembered making both with my parents. My Mom taught me the delicate art of candle-making one winter when we were snowed in and I was desperate for anything to break the monotony and the chill in my bones. And we couldn’t have a candle without a table to put it on, so Papa would teach me when I returned home, how to work his miter saw and use the doweling jigs. I remember thinking we would make the table dance. I was wrong.

The table sat waiting patiently for me, like no time had passed. The knots remained the same, just with an extra layer to grime to show the many years in between.

I reached into my pocket for a lighter, illuminating the cabin once again. For the first time in 10 years, there was a glimmer in the window. The flame flickered faintly at first, but as if in sync with my thoughts, grew taller with the memory of Papa.

“Are you here with me?”

The flame grew taller. I didn't need an answer, the fire confirmation enough. I soldiered on with my questioning.

"Are you happy?"

The flame quickly faltered. The air in the room was still, the silence deafening before being broken with the sounds of shattered glass.

I looked around for an explanation, but found none amongst the rubble. Shards of glass and empty window panes sat on the floor, bereft of a reason for their existence.

I didn't need one. Not, really...

The glass spoke in tongues not foreign to me, and the flame swiftly extinguished, like a soul leaving its body. The cabin in the woods had been abandoned for years, but for one night, a candle burned in the window.