Ghosts, dressed in nostalgia and shadows, stand at the windows hoping to share the lost memories of their youth. I step up to the crumbling logs to peer through the window, trying to see into the past.
They invite me across the threshold, into a cabin that had once been warm and bathed in flickering lantern light. Where the logs had resonated with laughter and conversation. With only a palette of dust and a breeze for a brush, they attempt to paint a picture of how the cabin had been. Instead, the air swirls with the scent of decaying leaves, rotting logs, and chipmunk droppings.
I stand at the window, shoulder to shoulder with my ghostly hosts, and look out, trying to see into the future. The logs settle deeper into the earth. Nature is relentless in its attempt to reclaim this place. No one comes to visit.
But then, the lonely voice of the wind in the trees is accompanied by music. The faint notes of a banjo, as soft and faint as a tinkling stream.
Log Cabin in the Lane: