Withered wood, and dusty blankets are all that's left of Papa's cabin.
Here the ghosts of soft spoken memories lie buried beneath the linoleum floor.
Shocking, but expected, that this is the same place
where children upon grandchildren upon great grandchildren
have sat in the laps of their parents and smiled.
Where spring showers brought sparkling leaves from the branches above,
and hot days turned into cool nights, sitting on the porch swing,
and a few feral cats kept the snakes and mice at bay.
Made for retreats, something far from home,
it grew around us like an old oak tree.
But, like a family, time nor nature were kind to the cabin.
Storm shutters could only prevent the damage from the outside,
and neglect spread like rot within its hallowed walls
till it became another empty place, quietly waiting for the end,
wishing for the songs of footsteps to bring the message
that its own had come back home again.