A Childhood Memory

When I was younger, I would go to the basement in my grandmother's house, to a small room in the very back corner. It was my secret little room, with one door and no windows. There were iron shelves that creaked when you placed anything on them, and little puffs of dust would come out of the wall as the ancient screws tore through the crumbling cinderblocks. There was a bitter smell, dust and pipe tobacco hit the back of your throat and gently cleared out your throat until you would swear you could smell the mice breathing behind the stones. With thick walls and a heavy, metal door, nothing could be heard from upstairs, and as a result, every time an argument would break out amongst the adults (which was every night after dinner, like clockwork), I would sneak down to the basement and sit alone. I decorated the walls with pictures from National Geographic magazines, and placed my mother's old horse statues on the shelves. I covered the walls with mountains, trees, birds, lions, horses, waterfalls, empty green fields, elegant women from the Middle East, rock and roll musicians- just about everything that made me smile. I brought a chair from the workroom on the other side of the basement, and a mini table so that I could bring dessert down with me and I would make a mess on the floor. No one wants rats getting into their special place.

 

As a teenager, I still go to my grandparents' house very frequently (every other weekend, at the least), and every once in a while I will go down to that little room and just look at the walls. It seems to have shrunk. The pictures only reach up about five feet from the ground, and I can picture my seven year old self stretching and straining to reach that high. The table and chair are still there, so small that I can no longer fit, and adorned with a layer of gray dust so thick a fly could get lost in it. The walls are still crumbling, and every time I open that heavy door, I imagine a gray plume of dust floating off the ground and coating the insides of my mouth and my throat but somehow, I am comforted by the dust, I am comforted by the discomfort.

I do not go down to that room very much anymore. I clear the table, and when the arguing breaks out (still every night after dinner, like clockwork), I set up a movie for my younger cousins. They really love ‘How the Grinch Stole Christmas’, and will watch it regardless of the season. I set the movie up for them, and plop them all down in a row, neatly sitting on the sofa and on the floor in front of it. Blankets and homemade cookies all around. After a little while, a glass of milk or apple juice is called for, and I put down whichever dish I am working on to deliver. No more sitting alone in a room for comfort. I can work so I am too tired to be upset.