SQN - Sine Qua Non - Issue 1 - Journal - Page 112
Hayley Pisciotti
Life Line
The place that means the most to me rests in the palm of my hand. If I shape my right
hand into a mitten and trace my left forefinger across my palm, I can get there. I simply
follow the center crease — what palm readers call “the life line” — about two centimeters
to the right. There, cupped in the natural curve, is Clare, Michigan. Of course, I cannot get
there using street names or navigational terms like “West of ” or “Due north” — that’s just not
how kids remember directions. But I know how many Mississippis to count down the long
county road and how to brace for the dip in the gravel once the final turn is made.
The place that means the most to me is a log cabin nestled between tall pines. Its dark
wood exterior dovetails like an Amish-built hope chest and sits alone overlooking a calm lake.
The only semblance of a driveway is two parallel lines of flattened grass in a field of shinhigh blades. This is where I learned how to ride a bike, drive a car, and navigate adolescence.
Throughout the summers, autumn weekends, and winter holidays, the cabin remained
entwined with dirt roads only familiarity could untangle. Every season, I returned.
As a kid, opening the cabin after being gone a while felt like going to church — a heavy
obligation that left me weightless afterward. First, the yawns of screened windows exchanged
musty air for a waterfront breeze. Dust awakened in sunlight and floated like ancient confetti
onto every surface. Subletting critters scattered from vacuums and brooms as we cleaned the
place from top to bottom. Finally, once the renewing ritual was over, the adventure began.
Time let her hair down at the cabin. I would watch the morning mist roll over the water’s
surface and contemplate how to braid all my minutes together. I spent afternoons diving into
the lake, and chapter books, and my own imagination. At night, my sun-kissed legs tangled
in the cool linen of the bottom bunk while I scribbled my day’s collection of ideas. My only
companion was the light from the nightstand’s lamp, glowing and inspiring me to write for
hours, like a warm, golden muse. Stories filled worn, watermarked notebook pages while
loons and crickets hummed their nocturnal song. As they found their calling, I found mine.
I have not written at the cabin in over a decade, and if you ask a kid, that’s forever. But
that’s how long ago the FOR-SALE sign went up — that’s how long ago my family held one
last ritual, then left it for someone else to awaken someday. With every season that passed, I
feared I had left my muse behind. I imagine that, in the company of Time, the two of them
waited by the water for my return. A different type of hope chest houses my notebooks and
nostalgia now. I won’t touch them, too afraid that the oils from my grown-up hands will ruin
my words and fade my memories.
Yet, no matter where I am or how much time has passed, I still hear a familiar calling
at night, like a phantom record playing in my mind. A soft song that urges me to sit, reflect,
and write. With my eyes shut, I trace my finger along my life line and guide myself down
those tangled roads. I listen closely for the loons and take a few deep breaths. When I open
my eyes, instead of a blank page before me, I see rippling dark water. I see Time with her hair
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