Fire Pit Glow
I hadn’t been back to the cabin in over six years. Life had a way of pulling me in different directions—college, jobs, relationships that never quite fit. But when my cousin Jamie invited me to the family gathering that summer, something in me said yes before I had the chance to think about it.
The place hadn’t changed much. The same gravel driveway crunching under tires, the same creaky screen door that slammed too hard if you let it go. Mom used to scold us for it, but her voice was only in my memory now. She’d died the year I moved out west, and after that, I avoided the cabin. I guess I didn’t want to see it without her in it.
It was a full house that weekend—my cousins, aunts, uncles, and people I hadn’t seen since I was a teenager. We cooked hot dogs, played cards, and someone brought a karaoke machine that got more use than I expected. It was nice. Comfortable, almost like no time had passed.
On Saturday night, someone started a fire in the old pit out back. The air was cool, and the stars were out the way they only are in the country—clear and endless. I sat on a folding chair with a chipped armrest and wrapped a blanket around my shoulders. A few of us were still out there—me, Jamie, Uncle Rick, and Uncle Don. They were drinking beers and poking at the fire with sticks, talking in that lazy, late-night way where people forget who’s listening.
I didn’t mean to eavesdrop. I was just there, half-listening, watching the flames. They were talking about old times—Dad building the deck, Grandma’s cinnamon rolls, the year the canoe tipped. Then the conversation shifted. I remember the way Uncle Don leaned back and sighed. He said something about things changing, about money being tight. I looked over, and Uncle Rick just nodded, staring into the fire.
Then Uncle Don said it. He said he’d sold the property. The cabin. Our cabin. The childhood home we all shared in summers and holidays. I sat completely still. I don’t think they realized I was paying attention. Maybe they thought I’d gone inside. Uncle Rick asked if anyone else knew, and Don said not yet. He hadn’t told the younger cousins. He didn’t want to ruin the weekend.
I felt my stomach tighten. I don’t know what I expected—maybe that we’d always have this place, that no matter how far life took us, we could come back here. I thought about the Christmas mornings with snow on the windows, the way Mom used to sit on the porch with her coffee, the dent in the kitchen table where I’d carved my initials with a fork when I was seven. It was all going to be gone.
I didn’t say anything that night. I just sat there, watching the fire burn down to glowing embers. I waited until they got up to go inside, and then I stayed out there alone for a long time. I could hear the wind in the trees and someone laughing inside. I didn’t feel like laughing.
The next morning, everything felt different. I helped set the table for breakfast, but I couldn’t stop thinking about what I’d heard. I watched Uncle Don put cream in his coffee like nothing had happened. I kept picturing the way he’d said it—quiet, like a confession. Like he knew it was wrong but had done it anyway.
I pulled Jamie aside later, when we were gathering wood for the fire. She didn’t know. She looked at me like I’d made it up. I told her exactly what I’d heard, and she just stood there, blinking. Then she shook her head and said she’d talk to her dad. I could tell she didn’t want to believe it.
That evening, the mood had shifted. People were quieter. Jamie must’ve said something, because Uncle Don avoided eye contact and spent most of the night in the kitchen. No one brought it up directly, but the air was thick with it. I walked down to the lake alone and sat on the dock, kicking my feet over the edge. I tried to remember the last time I’d been there. It was probably the summer before Mom got sick. She’d made us all pancakes and we’d gone swimming in the cold water, yelling and splashing until our teeth chattered.
I don’t know how long I sat there. The sky turned soft and pink, and the crickets started up. I heard footsteps behind me and turned to see Uncle Don. He didn’t say anything, just sat down beside me. I didn’t look at him. We sat in silence, watching the water. After a while, he got up and walked back to the house. I didn’t follow.
The next morning, I packed early. I didn’t say much to anyone. Jamie gave me a long hug and didn’t let go right away. I think she wanted to say something, but she didn’t. I got in my car and drove off before breakfast was served.
About a month later, I got a group email from Uncle Don. He wrote that the cabin had been sold, that the new family would move in during the fall. He attached a photo of the cabin from the lake—sunlight on the roof, trees just starting to turn. He said it was time. That keeping it up was too much work, and no one had the time or money to manage it. He said he hoped we’d all understand.
I didn’t reply. I couldn’t. I just stared at the photo on my laptop screen until my eyes blurred. I felt like something had been taken without asking. Not just a building, but a piece of who I was. I know it sounds dramatic, but that place was more than wood and nails. It was memories. It was the only place that ever felt like it belonged to all of us.
In the months that followed, I tried to move on. I focused on work, on my apartment, on the routines that keep you going. But every now and then, I’d think about that night by the fire—the way the flames danced in Uncle Don’s glasses, the way he looked when he said it. Not guilty, exactly. Just tired. Like he’d been carrying it too long.
I don’t hate him. I don’t even blame him, really. I know life gets complicated. Taxes, repairs, legal stuff—things I never had to deal with. Maybe he really didn’t have a choice. But I wish he’d told us. I wish we could’ve talked about it, looked for a solution together. Maybe we could’ve started a fund, taken turns maintaining it. Maybe not. But we never got that chance.
I’ve learned something from all this. Places don’t last forever. People don’t either. What stays are the stories, the moments you hold onto. The way my mom used to braid my hair on the porch. The smell of bacon in the mornings. The time I fell off the swing and cried until Dad carried me inside.
I still miss the cabin. I think I always will. But I try to remember that it’s not gone completely. It lives in all of us who spent our childhoods there. And maybe that’s enough.
