The Basement

I am organized. At my brainstem. The smells are underground. Like bricks and her amazing cooking. She turns her head. Her hair flickers. A crumb tumbles. Beneath it all. It is cold. But there’s steam. From homemade casserole. I am even more organized than most. Clumps of dirt in piles. Organized by date and time. I am in the basement. Nothing is furnished. Just me. A creaky ceiling. Pipes that could burst. And my phone by my side. It’s 3:45 am. And no one is calling me upstairs.