Chapter 17 - The Ghost of Michigan
In early October,
when the northern woods turned brilliant shades of crimson and amber,
Linda and I boarded a train heading east toward Michigan.
Danny stayed behind in Sandpoint to care for our father and manage the cafe,
promising to join us at the lake house for Thanksgiving.
It had been eleven years since I last walked up the gravel driveway of Aunt Linda’s house in Michigan.
When the taxi dropped us off at the edge of the lake,
the air was cool,
sharp,
and smelled of pine needles and damp earth.
The house stood tall among the ancient white pines,
its dark green shutters slightly faded by weather,
its wide front porch looking out over the sparkling,
grey-blue expanse of Lake Huron.
This was the house where my blue suitcase had landed every June.
This was the house where I had learned to read,
where I had learned to bake pies,
and where I had stared out the bedroom window,
wondering why my parents preferred Florida over me.
Linda stood beside me on the gravel path,
her hand tightly wrapped in mine,
her eyes shining with tears.
"It looks smaller,"
Linda whispered,
her voice trembling in the autumn wind.
"Or maybe we are just bigger than the secrets we kept here,"
I replied softly,
squeezing her hand.
We unlocked the heavy wooden front door,
the key turning with a familiar,
iron click that echoed through my chest.
Inside,
the house was frozen in time.
The dust motes danced in the afternoon sunlight streaming through the tall windows.
The bookshelf in the living room was still packed with the old storybooks Linda had bought me when I was nine.
The braided rag rug lay in front of the stone fireplace,
just as it had when I used to lie on it,
writing stories in a spiral notebook.
We walked up the creaking wooden staircase to the second floor,
stopping at the door at the end of the hall.
My old bedroom.
I pushed the door open slowly.
The small twin bed was made with the same blue-and-white quilt.
The desk sat by the window,
overlooking the water.
And on top of the wooden dresser,
May you like
dusted with a thin layer of time,
was a small silver key that did not belong to any door in the house.
