Do places count as heirlooms? If so, this 100-year-old cabin is mine, and this is how I’ll always remember it.
“What time is it?” I whisper from the top bunk as I sit up and peer out the blind-less floor-to-ceiling window in front of me. The cabin is almost fully lit by the early morning sunlight, only a few notches brighter than the iridescent glow of moonlight that illuminates the cabin at dark.
“Almost 7,” my grandmother responds from the kitchen. I contemplate jumping out of the top bunk onto the tattered red couch below, just like I used to as a kid, but I opt for the ladder instead. I hate using the ladder, by the way. It’s propped against the bunk at about a 90-degree angle, and it isn’t even attached to the bed frame. One wrong move and you’re either sliding into the wall or onto the floor. I should have just jumped, I say to myself as I finally touch the ground.
I reach into my Blundstones to pull my socks on before I slip into my boots. We keep our shoes on in the cabin because we track so much mud and dirt inside from wandering around the 200-acre property on ATVs during the day. There isn’t much else to do on 200 acres of land three hours north of Toronto.
I walk into the kitchen and see my grandmother sitting at the table with two mugs in front of her. One is full of freshly brewed stovetop espresso, steam rising from the mug in small, weightless swirls. Mine is full of warm milk. She asks if I want to spoon in the hot chocolate mix this time, but I ask her to do it. It’s tradition for me to drink hot chocolate instead of coffee, reminiscent of the days when I didn’t even know what coffee was.
Clink. Clink. Clink. The soft rhythmic sound of the spoon hitting the sides of the mug lulls me into a state between sleep and wake. As she stirs, I gaze out the window at the perimeter of watchman trees that guards our cabin from the outside world day in and day out. Most are evergreens, some vibrant and overgrown, others are tall and bare, shooting up into the sky for a breath of fresh Muskoka air. And then there are the maples, whose summery green leaves are just beginning to give way to the warm and comforting hues of autumn.
My grandmother slides the hot chocolate across the table and as soon as it meets my hands I close my eyes tight and inhale deeply. The sweet smell of hot chocolate mixed with the nutty, earthy scent of the coffee blend together to make the most perfect nostalgic scent. One I’ll carry with me long after the cabin is gone. As the fire crackles steadily in the next room, I start to lament the moment before it’s even over.
Suddenly the 100-year-old floorboards creak, signalling the wakefulness of another body, and just like that our moment is over. The last morning my grandmother and I will have together in this cabin. It’s being torn down soon in favour of a newer, more modern design. One that can accommodate more than ten people with ease. But I prefer this cabin, where we all live in close quarters, stuck together in a sort of time warp where the past seems closer than the present.
Note: This was a 500-word narrative description assignment for a Storytelling and Narrative course.
Arisa Valyear 