Sometimes, startled by dusk, she would
creep slowly down the splintered stairs,
to the clammy, dusty floor of the basement.
Reaching beneath the workbench,
her hand would emerge with a flathead, thin enough
to pry the paneling loose from the far wall.
The space was dark and cold, smelling
like a dried out riverbed. Large enough for her hand
to fit in and place, replace, and remove.
She kept her memories there, tended them when
the rest of the house slept: a photograph
of the dead family dog, Rosey; blueprints
of a tree house; a Campbell’s soup can, filled
with stones; a lock of her best friends hair; the receipt
from breakfast with her father, the day before he died.
(Unsure about the ending... unsure about this in general... oh well.)
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I like the ending. It's surprising and very loaded. Adds a whole new dimension and meaning to the list and to her nostalgia.
ReplyDeleteBut what the heck is with that third to last line???? How am I supposed to write from THAT???
Wow, Del, this is awesome! It exactly fits my mood this week, and a book I just read, called "Here at the End of the World I Learned to Dance." I can picture the girl and the basement perfectly. Your list is comfortable, yet shocking all in the same moment...surprising in an "of course" sort of way. I love it.
ReplyDeleteP.S. I like what you did with my 3rd to last line...using/changing them is sometimes the best part!