Your Basement Misses You by Amanda Himmelmann

In the beginning it was empty spaces, cold concrete and spiders that nestled in my corners. Then came the stuff, boxes and trash bags, dented folding chairs and empty tiki torches from the first party you held in the backyard, then the plastic margarita glasses, still sticky. A smiling ghost, dirty from outside, and the fake fall flowers in rustic vases. Glitter and glass, a tree in a box, little orbs wrapped carefully and arranged into shoeboxes, then colorful baskets with plastic eggs. The crib, toys, toys and more toys, little blue onesies that no longer fit. I remembered all the things you forgot.

Then came the fun. The sheetrock and carpet, the whistling and hammering, the recessed lighting and drop ceiling. There was noise and excitement, a television that kept the silence away, a couch for cuddling and popcorn. There were games and laughter, toys got bigger and more exciting until they too got pushed into my closets and dark spaces where I watched over them.

I saw new people, I saw old people, I saw slumber parties, then secret parties, then wild parties that made holes in my walls and spilled beer on my floors. I heard him with her when they were alone, hushed whispers in the dark, saw soft kisses that became something more, but you never knew. I giggled on the inside.

Then, one day, there were tears. He spoke gently and held her hand, spoke about car trips and long distance and everything being okay. I felt sad and pretended he was talking to me. I watched as you started bringing everything out, scattered memories on my floor that got put into big cardboard boxes or simply thrown away. All those things that I held onto for you, kept safe, years and years, now gone. I felt so empty. Soon the couch was gone too, the TV, the laughter, the warmth.

And I was alone in the dark.

Amanda Himmelmann is a Senior Creative Writing Major at the State University of New York at Geneseo.