Scheherazade – V — The Cathedral Windows

I have traveled from Seattle to our Maine summer home to divide up the family pictures and letters and get them out of here before the place burns down.

The drive here is full of reverie and miniature dramaturgy related to my late mother, to the home, to my adolescence, especially when traveling alone as I am today. These long-drive fantasies are broken up by the practical relief of coming around the last road bend, seeing the chimney standing straight, the attic windows whole, the big oak upright, the porch horizontal.

I fuss in the basement to get the power and water back on, stepping over basement puddles on floppy plywood stepping stones and ducking low-hanging pipes that very possibly run septic direct into the harbor. I’m careful to avoid the not-to-code, knob-and-tube wiring and, as always, I feel the relief of not electrocuting myself getting the house resuscitated yet one more time.

I let myself into the foyer through the chipped green front-door and marvel, as always, at the ti…