Here is the place where I love you
(so I know it’s late, but this just wouldn’t leave my head and I figured what the heck, I’ll submit it anyway)
The cottage isn't anything like I was expecting, tucked into a copse of trees, the roof nearly obscured by moss. From the outside it’s little more than a scar on the pristine lakefront, a shack unworthy of note.
The inside, though, is all Effie; shelves of porcelain teacups and starched white doilies, shades of pink everywhere. But it’s snug and bright and well appointed, with indoor plumbing and modern appliances.
I didn’t even know this place existed until a month ago, at the reading of the will. Eccentric aunt Effie had no children of her own, and while I wouldn’t have put it past her to leave her worldly possessions to Buttercup, her crotchety old cat, I wasn’t too surprised to get a call from the executor.
She left my sister, Prim, her New York apartment, packed with a lifetime’s worth of antique furniture and tchotchkes. To our cousin Johanna she bequeathed her Miami condo. But to me she left a derelict cabin, deep in the North Carolina woods.