Two Boxes & an A-Frame

We drove on the snowy, winding road toward the A-frame cabin. The three of us had been up there before, several years ago for Sam’s birthday. That year Hanukkah came late and overlapped with the 26th of December. Mom made goulash and a mess in the kitchen that would have surely resulted in a ban from returning without our combined consorted effort. We were happy that year, watching all 11 months as they buried themself in the falling snow outside those impressive windows. The fire never went out that night, it only turned to embers that warmed our already heavy eyes. I remember watching the orange dance through the curved reflection in my wine glass. I poured the last dregs of the red into my glass. Mom and Sam were leaning against each other on the loveseat and for a moment he looked two years old again. She looked 29.

This year the ride was quiet with reminiscence. The snow fell like a reverent friend, and I was grateful to see her. It took 32 years for me to learn to drive. I’ve always been horrified at the idea of wielding a 2-ton missile. That kind of power and control was an altar to hubris I had no interest in worshipping. I was content to transport myself via trains, rollerblades, and the kindness of strangers for the remainder of my days. Look at me now, inching my way up through the harrowing switchbacks toward our cabin in my boyfriend’s F-150.

If the heater had ever worked in the cab, it was before my time. I felt the familiar numbness return to my toes return just like it does every time we’re dragged from the Florida sunshine. We left the cold of Oregon on purpose several years ago. The winters were too dark and damp for us, so we stole ourselves away one day with less than 24 hours of consideration, and headed across the country with the same big white missile.

“I left for a reason,” I always say when people ask, not that they do as much anymore. My tan skin and sun-lightened hair serve as a passable disguise in Florida, but back in Oregon at the gas station, I clashed with the locals. Even my coziest well-worn flannel couldn’t cover the years of sunny days I carried on my face. I’d been subsisting on paper cups of hot coffee and fingerless gloves for hours by the time we reached the last few turns. The weather had been kind to us; no ice and clear visibility the whole way up. A periwinkle dusk reflected off the freshly-packed powder and the very top of our A-frame emerged from the horizon. At that moment I swear I could feel those same embers from our fire all those winters ago begin to warm my face.

Sam left just before his 29th birthday in a hospital bed. He was unwell from the day he was born, and the fight left his body that bleak December morning. It took Mama two more years to follow in his footsteps. Her final breath exhaled only a floor above his, in the same hospital and I felt her warm hand in mine. Her heart was leashed to his from the day he was born. I used to be so jealous of their relationship, but I grew to understand the connection between firstborns and their mamas. She had to follow him wherever he went, and leaving this planet was no exception. This is how the fabric of their lives is interwoven. As I unbuckled their boxes from the passenger seat, I knew this to be true. I lifted them into my arms and I could feel their weight difference. Sam was in a hand-crafted cedar box built just for him. Mom commissioned it for him and it sat next to her bed until she was ready to go. Mom was still in the matte-grey rectangle from the crematorium. I never wanted to put her in a pretty jar. In life, neither one of them could be contained. His bright eyes and her resounding laughter deserved to dance together in the aftermath, unencumbered.

I poured myself a glass of wine from the bottle of red I picked up at the gas station, and then a few more. I built my fire the same way Mama taught me and kept it way too hot the way Sam always had. I played The Eagles for her and Frank Sinatra for him. I danced in the living room, swirling in my sweater and my heart. Every memory we shared in that cabin held me with a comfort even the most artfully crafted fire couldn’t live up to. The next morning I would take them to our favorite spot on the mountain; a little lake we never knew the name of. It wouldn’t be frozen yet. I would watch as the carbon of them dispersed on the surface between the falling snowflakes. That would be tomorrow, but that night before in the cabin was just ours.