Edgar Allan Poe Cottage

A few weekends ago, after eating at a diner in the Bronx, I decided to explore the northernmost borough, and ended up at the Edgar Allan Poe Cottage. Built in 1812, the cottage is the last home that Poe ever lived in — he died while on a trip in Baltimore — where his wife Virginia died after a battle with tuberculosis, and where he wrote Annabel Lee and The Bells.

It's a small and humble home, with only a few rooms, low ceilings and tiny windows. Poe was very poor during his life, and moved here with Virginia and her mother in hopes that the country air (yes, the Bronx was once considered the country) would be good for Virginia's failing health. Unfortunately that was not the case, and she died in first floor bedroom in January, 1847. There is a bed in that room today that they claim is possibly one of three beds in which Virginia may have died. Besides the bed, there is a gold mirror and a rocking chair that actually belonged to Poe, and the rest of the furnishings are period-correct, but not original to the cottage.

It's only $3 for students to visit, and there's an interesting, short movie to watch on the second floor that goes into detail about Poe's life in the city and the cottage's journey to its present-day state. A small park, Poe Park, surrounds the cottage and includes a visitors' center that was designed to pay homage to a raven in flight, with slate shingles reminiscent of feathers.

There isn't a ton to look at inside of the cottage, but it was still pretty incredible to stand in the space where Poe wrote so many of his famous works, especially Annabel Lee, which is one of my very favorite pieces ever written:

"But our love it was stronger by far than the love

Of those who were older than we—

Of many far wiser than we—

And neither the angels in Heaven above

Nor the demons down under the sea

Can ever dissever my soul from the soul

Of the beautiful Annabel Lee"

It should be no surprise that I love Poe because his writing is dark, mysterious and at times macabre — or that I delighted in finding two super creepy black handprints streaked down the side of the cottage. There's also a small merchandise counter at the entrance to the cottage, with postcards, prints, black cat keychains and bone-shaped pens.

Surprisingly I don't have any bone-shaped writing utensils in my possession, but in hindsight, I probably should have bought one because I'm definitely the kind of person to pull out a plastic bone to take notes during a creative meeting. I wasn't able to resist buying a postcard, though, if only so I could one day send it off and refer to it as a Poestcard, because the opportunity to pass along a groan-worthy pun is totally more than worth the price of admission.