Tick, tock. Tick, tock. The battery run wall clock faithfully pulses time through the cabin’s interior. At this moment, it is working its melodic tick, tock through the night’s darkness. I am soothed, like a six-week-old puppy, spending its first night away from the litter, thoughtfully placed in a basket with a fuzzy blanket and alarm clock, supposedly simulating the heartbeat of its mother. I am snuggled into my grandmother’s bed, under one of her quilts, in the bedroom on the other side of the clock’s wall.  I, like the puppy, am soothed.

The hum of the refrigerator joins the rhythm. A duet of comfort. Reassuring sounds. A ritual. I roll over and open my eyes. Through the white, laced curtains, the full moon sheds a low glow, over the sewn squares, brought together by loving, talented hands. Tick, tock. Time passing. It is 4:00 a.m., too early to start the day. I lay back and listen. I hear an owl. A barred owl. Not too far off down the lake. I think of my dad and the October weekend we brought his ashes to this, his beloved cabin.

There was a full moon that evening, too. His ashes were inside a wooden box, hand-crafted by one of his dear friends, Andy. Mom and I put it on the porch window seat, his favorite napping spot, to pass the night. The October chill set in after sunset. The lake waves flattened to glass, reflecting fading shades of lavender and rose as dusk turned to darkness. I took the wet plate into my dishtowel and went to the window as I dried it.

There, through the branches, an orange ball rose, softening as it climbed into the sky. Dad and I had an agreement. Every time we saw a full moon, we’d send up love, to bounce off the moon and back again, to embrace the other in its beauty and light. I whispered out the window, “I love you, Dad.”

A moment later, an owl down the shoreline, called out. An answer? I ran to the porch. It called again. It sounded closer. I took off for the dock. It called again.  At the end of the dock, I called back. Silence. The moon quietly shed its beam across the lake to where I was standing. I waited. The moon shone over the lake, bringing out sketches of black pine silhouettes. Dad and the owl were gone.

Tick, tock, tick, tock.  It is another October, eleven years later. The moon rises. I will sleep on the porch window seat. The evening temperatures hover in the 70s, not the seasonal 40s. The World War II green wool Army blanket might not be necessary, but I like the weight of it, as I tuck in my toes. The moon is rising orange over the eastern pines. No electric lights on this end of the lake. I will choose the window seat for two nights and then move inside to the sofa, where the moon will whitewash the cabin’s interior.

I will take grandma’s feather pillow with me, chasing the moonlight’s course from spot to spot, hoping to wake in its beam, as it changes its course through the heavens. This morning, at 4:00 a.m., it came through the west window washing over me, the sofa, the empty dining room chairs, the unlit wood stove, the loon pillows . . . everything revealing itself in this shadowy dawning.

Sitting up, looking out the window, between the white pine and cedar branches, I saw the ripples fanning out from an early morning beaver. The moonlight was giving way to daybreak. And, there it was. The calling of the barred owl.

Welcome home, Dad.

What is something that triggers memories for you?