I circled to the side and looked up at the closed shutters of the high loft window, one of them hanging precariously, like a small boy might hang from an apple tree. The house still had the massive trellis which held beach plumbs in the summer months, now only tendrils of dead and brittle vine, weaving through the slats. The snow dusted everything in crystalline splendor. It was December. It was my first Christmas back since my brother’s death. I stood in front of the cabin, its façade still smiling, though gap toothed, now, with a broken pane in the upper storm window, and paint peeling from the front baluster. There were hatch marks by the front door, tiny slits cut into the frame with initials carved next to them. I found mine, still two inches beneath my chin. The painted deck was marbled by the countless wheels of match box cars, racing down the slope to the other side, the occasional traffic accident, and sometime pedestrian mishap along the way. The faded door, although still in need of work, seemed to wink at me as the screen door flapped in the breeze.
