[ WP ] Take the taste of a drink and make it the atmosphere of a story .

The cabin creaked around me as I walked through it, the wooden floorboards and rough log walls shifting and groaning as though they were still living things. Every step brought forth new sounds, and yet they were all familiar, the soundtrack of summers long gone and winters huddled close around the woodstove's fire. 
 
 I walk into the kitchen and take a look around. The vinyl floor was dusty and gritty under my bare feet, just like it had been when I was a child. The electric range and huge, hulking iron stove sat side-by-side against the wall, along with an ancient dishwasher on wheels that I remember having to roll across the kitchen floor so we could hook it up to the sink to wash the dishes. It was exactly as I remembered it, down to the tiniest detail. 
 
 And yet it was all wrong, all out of place. The silence of the cabin, the gentle groans and creaks, the lapping of the waves from the lake outside, was all I could hear. Gone were the sounds of shuffling feet heard through thin ceilings and walls. Gone were the constant sounds of cooking and cleaning and snacking from the kitchen and living room. Gone were the sounds of impromptu dance parties and constant visiting neighbors from the sunbathers on the dock. Gone, even, were the soft scratching sounds of the bats in the ceiling - the cabin was silent and still and lifeless. 
 
 I shivered, despite myself, and decided I needed something to drink. 
 
 I turned the handles on the faucet and the water spurted and grumbled before bursting out clear and clean, pumped straight up from the lake with only cursory filtration. I took a sip and it was cold and crisp, but it was n't what I was looking for. 
 
 I turned and hunted through the cabinets above the sink until I found what I wanted - a giant can of some off-brand Canadian lemonade mix, a relic of my childhood. My grandmother had picked these up from some store somewhere years ago, and somehow she never seemed to run out. Any time I was thirsty I was offered a cup of `` Grandma's lemonade,'' and there was always a pitcher ready to carry down to the dock on a plain plastic tray for everyone to share. 
 
 I opened the lid on the powder and inhaled - the sugary tartness of the smell was just as I remembered. I scooped out a bit with a regular spoon and dropped it into a glass, then mixed some water in. A taste test revealed the need for more powder, and I added and stirred and tasted until the mixture was just right. A few ice cubes from the bag of ice I'd brought with me - the freezer, like all the other appliances, had been turned off - and it was ready. 
 
 I walked back out of the kitchen, through the living room and past Grandpa's bar, now thick with dust. I considered for a second browsing through his various whiskeys and gins for something to add to the lemonade, but somehow that felt like a betrayal. Instead I ran my finger over the bar as I walked past, tracing a line in the dust, feeling the fake red leather run past under my fingertip, still smooth. 
 
 The floor continued to creak as I walked out of the living room and into the den, the large, open space where most of our indoor entertaining had occurred. The room had felt cavernous when I was young, but it was smaller now, the furniture both shabbier and exactly the same. On one wall hung a giant sombrero, at least six feet across, the story behind which I'd never learned and now never would. On the opposite wall, over the fireplace, hung a clock made from the propeller of an airplane, even larger than the sombrero and yet somehow perfectly at home. Framed pictures lined the other two walls, along with windows and doors leading to two of the seven bedrooms. The woven rug felt chunky under my bare feet as I wandered through the room, touching photos, flipping through dusty paperbacks, and peering at memories long past. 
 
 After a while I wandered out the screen door, the steel spring pulling it shut behind me with a bang that still startled me despite having heard it thousands of times. The front porch wrapped around the whole house, but I stepped straight forward and walked down the split-log steps that led down to ground level. The lemonade glass was cold and sweaty, and my fingers were starting to ache from holding it so tight. I sat down on the steps and switched the glass to my other hand, then wiped the moisture off on my shorts and took a sip. The lemonade was just as sweet as I remembered, and every bit as sour.
