The Basement

No matter how many times she descended those basement stairs, it always felt like a mystery that might not end well; dark and dank.

From a distance one might assume she carried a bouquet instead of that quilt all gathered up in scrawny arms, barely seeing over the mound of yellow daisies cascading across the circa 1960s cotton fabric, packed with tiny lint balls.

I just knew she was brave, even if she did not.

“One more step. Focus forward. Do not seek out the hidden gloom, and all will be well,” she whispers. Some days this is managed better than others, which I find quite remarkable considering she is only 9.

In the middle of boxes, furniture and what grandma calls "what nots" sits an old metal chair. She moves quickly, pulling and sliding it across the room, annoyed all the while as screeching of metal against concrete pierces her ears.

I watch her small self, climbing atop; agile, standing tall as the temporary clothesline. One swoop of an arm throws that blanket up, face full of delight, watching it float above for the shortest second, to come down reminiscent of angel wings, landing beside the bag of colorful pins she will use to pinch the folds together in back.

Once inside, as long as she doesn't lean her weight in that direction, this could indeed become her sacred place, and she appears quite satisfied.

Now for the rug.

Mama gave her the old rug when she spied it rolled like a sausage, over there, under the pile of outgrown toys. It had once lay in front of the red sofa, beautifully braided with brilliant colors the years had slowly softened into pastels, like the watercolor painting she'd seen of Miami Beach at the Jensen’s house. One day, without a word, the family went their separate ways, selling it at the community garage sale.

Now, this rug too, sits aside unwanted; except by her.

Carefully unrolling the faded colors, she places it inside her blanket tent atop the cold basement floor, almost damp to the touch. Centering it just so, like a waiting altar, she sits cross-legged, folding her small hands like a quiet prayer.

In silence, unknown seeds are sowing within the depts of winters heart, to awaken her soul when spring finally breaks free between wildflowers and weeds, and I'll be there for it all. Observing her lessons on what to keep, and what's okay to pull out in every future season, watching over the course of her choices forever.

But in this moment, she just really needs a pillow; maybe two.

Avoiding shadows, once again, she trudges upstairs to her room and back down; two pillows in tow. One white, stolen off her sister’s bed. One bright yellow, hers, with Raggedy Ann and Andy smiling upside down, tucked under two pale limbs.

Passing the green and white swirled kitchen table, held up by chrome legs she crawled underneath in the early years when she watched Mama prepare dinner and pretended her family was the Brady Bunch, I know she's recalling the day daddy replaced it with a large wooden table bought at that fancy store.

She never did like it, and nothing was ever the same.

There are no real windows in this basement, only a tiny rectangle way up high where light filters in early on a summer morning, and a latch to remove yourself should one be trapped within the darkness, come night. It feels more like a cave you take the chance of getting lost within, and somehow she's become okay with that as she stops to grab the pale, pink glass lamp off a dusty shelf.

Mama discarded it long ago and lets her play with it.

There is no shade, just a bulb she knows will brighten up the dim interior of wooden walls, old furniture and pieces of history that once mattered, that still matter, to her; one born into this land with ancient thoughts.

She carefully sets the lamp down, inserting the end of a dirty white cord into the wall unit behind the sacred place. A click of the little black switch exposes the silhouette of her long legs over the quilt of daisies, and she begins to dance around the soft bulb, naked without its shade.

Like a musical with no music at all.

Exhausted, lying her curly head down on smiling Raggedy Ann, she brings forth a book, tucked inside her blue zippered sweatshirt she checked out at the school library on Friday after her favorite teacher finished reading it during story time last week.

Her small hands trace the title written in gold, A Tree Grows in Brooklyn.

She identifies with Francie, walking through the streets of Brooklyn in 1912, seemingly small and weak, but nestled inside was courage and strength passed on from an alcoholic father; the only one who truly understood that her thirst to write, was intertwined with her need to survive.

Like a drink of water in the desert is the gift of someone believing in you; standing behind your shadow so there is space to face your fears in life's basement.

Like Francies father.

Like hers.

She stares for the longest while at the book with the painted tree growing out of a sidewalk crack, then opens the cover to read aloud.

"There's a tree that grows in Brooklyn. Some call it the Tree of Heaven. No matter where it's seed falls, it makes a tree which struggles to reach the sky. It grows in boarded up lots and out of neglected rubbish piles ... it is the only tree that grows out of cement."

I close my eyes, listening to her voice from all the dusky corners, lead her on a journey to the sacred places language will take you when you're born with words etched upon your bones.