death of a log cabin

being that which was inherited ages ago by the mcNally's - they'd owned the property in the rural alcove of jungle-like trees of New York State. boards now rotten, gone sweet with decay and the delicate lacy maggots that squirmed among the wood. and it was quite beautifully shaded with bars of light from the listless northern sun. Some of the McNally's siblings traveled west - and where else? escaping the gloomy winters and the frail, miserable people. Several of them stayed, out of obligation or crippling low self-esteem: they sent their children to country school, and hid their cigarette habits in the strangest places (the creek, the old sandbox, the bottom drawer of a dresser nobody used).

The woods behind the McNally's house was a sort of Terebithia to their children - and grandchildren, in turn. In the creek the slippery rocks and the wide hills of the gully were foreboding, so deliciously. They hidden in the lob cabin for hours, counting childish aspirations and poking at small, helpless animals with sticks. Sarah, the recluse, she was the dreamer: winding herself joyfully through the spires of trees, extemporizing: the glory she sought in the most basic and immature of matters.

For her older brother Sean the cabin was an indolent place to smoke pot, hook up, lead young women astray. He felt their bra-straps so carefully, that look of empathy so well manufactured onto his vaguely handsome face. And of course the fucking and the pained expression of those girls' faces and the weak begging -

(Sean would go to jail, in seven years, charged with three accounts of first degree rape)

And poor Sarah, a rare beauty, came back to the property after her parents died. She and her partner (Alanya - mahogany haired, level headed woman) helped her get the house onto the market. And on a chilly damp day in spring they hiked back to the log cabin and solemnly, tremblingly set it on fire. The heat crackled in the impossible mist in the unseasonably cold air. Sarah lay her head on Alanya's shoulder. Really the fire was quite beautiful: all those yellows and blues and oranges: melting and competing with one another over the old lace-like maggots in the boards.