I imagine that sometime soon, someone will trek down the rocky dirt road with a realtor to viewthe cottage. They will see everything only at face value—three bedrooms, two docks, a sleepingcabin and Grampa’s garden, which I’m sure looks nothing like the tended green paradise it oncewas. But there is so much they won’t be able to see.
They won’t see the piles of junk that once filled the master bedroom, or the ghosts of belovedfamily dogs whose spirits, I’m sure, still paddle about in the lake.
They won’t be able to see the ruins of the block-people city on the screened porch. They certainlywon’t see Gramma’s magic window, which my uncle boarded up in the name of practicality.
These little things are what filled that place for generations, like invisible cobwebs of memorycovering every wall.
Nothing is immutable . The people, the places, the things we love can be, and too often are, takenfrom us. But that doesn’t make them any less enduring . The very lucky among us are left withhappy memories in which to carry around the light of other days.
For myself, I know this: that there will never be any overgrown gardens or boarded-up windows inthe cottage that lives in my mind. That particular incarnation is mine to keep, untouched by deathor change, frozen and unmoving in the crystalline past.
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