Cabin Alive

We drove up the snowy, winding road toward the cozy A-frame cabin. Constructed with pristine straight lines and sharp corners, a little rough around the edges, one wall made entirely of glass -- easily shattered -- overlooking the darkening forest...

This cabin was me.

The host greeted me a little too warmly and handed me the key. “Happy Holidays! The cabin is officially occupied!”

I had been unoccupied for so long. I wasn’t used to this pressure of life inside, pressing at the seams like a blizzard, feeling the heartbeat, the cold, the heat…feeling.

Icicles stretched from the eaves, warning all who dare pass this threshold: you might get pricked!

My children, unperturbed as children often are, rushed past into the empty room, enjoying the echo in the high-peaked atrium. I flinched at the hollers leaping from surface to surface, waiting for the heavy hand to fall. “Hush a little, we’re in nature.”

My daughter said, “Mommy, it’s the perfect place to sing!”

No heavy hand here.

I began to unpack fleecy coats and hats to block the chill from our nerves. Better keep those close. They went on the chair in the corner. Weighted blankets to make it easier for sleep to overtake us, forgetting where we were, forgetting how empty the cabin seemed without him.

It's my fault he's not here. Everything is always my fault. No matter how hard I tried, I was never enough.

Wait. The cabin was empty, would I fill it again with this? “No!” my voice echoed with the children’s. I startled myself a little, but I liked it.

My son rushed in and bounced onto the bed, rumpling the clothes I was laying out carefully, carefully, not to wrinkle. By muscle memory my body buckled in anticipation of the oncoming cold rage. He would sense something out of place, he would blow in like a hurricane and…

My child froze like the forest around us. “I’m sorry,” he whispered in a voice that shivered like a leaf. “Will he be mad?”

I took a sharp breath and squared my shoulders – no more folding at the corners. I practiced using the steady voice I was just beginning to find. “No, because he’s not here. He won’t ever know if the clothes are wrinkled. He won’t know if we sing in the house. He won’t know we’re having fun on our holiday.”

“He always knows.”

“Not anymore.”

A smile chased the tear that had spilled down his rosy cheek. “Are you sure?”

“One hundred percent.” A smile hid the tremble like frostbite in my chest. It hurt.

“I like when it’s just us, Mommy. When it’s just us, I’m not afraid all the time.”

“Some of the time?”

“Some of the time -- but not here!” he ran to the next room and joined his sister’s boisterous song, some seasonal carol. I listened for a moment, letting the walls of the lonely cabin feel the warmth and the joy in their voices.

They had voices. The tightness in my chest eased at the truth. It was still new, but it reminded me why we had sought this haven. It reminded me that these walls were safe.

I turned to the clothing on the bed, imperfectly scattered. Bright colors of all shapes and sizes looked up at me. I scooped them up like a silky soft rainbow and bundled them into the drawer without creasing the edges of each item.

I would not waste one more moment of my life trying to be perfect. No more buttons all in a row and collars crisply pressed. Who has time for that anyway? The crisp mountain air was the only crisp I needed. It was energy and life, nothing hollow in these rooms today.

I joined my children -- one strength and the other hope -- in the open room. A cardinal had joined their song from the banister by the window. She must have been curious to witness their flurry of activity and noise in a place that had been stoically frozen for so long.

I studied the brave bird, blood red on a blank canvas, weaving a melody on the wind. My mother used to say, "Cardinals appear when angels are near." She called them a symbol of hope, staying through winter and continuing to sing in the snowy darkness. I had read that female cardinals at times sing to ward off predators. Keep singing, lady bird, and so will I.

I hummed along with the kids as I lit a fire in the fireplace. “Shall we toast marshmallows?”

The children gave a cheer, but my daughter paused. “He says no sugar before bedtime!”

“I think bedtime is a long way off and I know he’s not here.”

“He’ll find out. He always finds out.”

“Not anymore.”

“Do you promise?” her hand found her throat. Her skin remembered.

“I promise.” My hand clutched the neckline of my shirt, sympathizing with hers, gestures communicating more than words with our bodies that still felt the pain.

I gazed into the flickering orange and shuddered. It would take time for the flame, lighted only a moment ago, to warm the empty space. No one had lit a fire here in so long.

“Hot cocoa?”

Two voices cheered in reply, and the cabin responded like a new friend.

Three voices broke the silence, and I knew that we would survive the winter and spring would arrive within these walls.