A half-finished basement in the suburbs of Boston revealed to me where I was half-finished in my soul.
Flat footed, I could touch the ceiling.
A stall shower with a spigot of water straight from the wall (no shower head) so hot water and truths rushed at my face too quickly.
No closet door, no windows, and a patch of unfinished dirt floor in the corner where there had been a leak years ago.
Definitely a space for one, plus my cat. Plus the rats.
My landlord and upstairs neighbor was named Carl, a professional pianist turned accountant turned caretaker turned widower turned recovering alcoholic.
The pianist had two grown sons who lived at home, the economy is that bad. The sons resented their father for how he’d treated them as children and could be positively cruel to him. Once, when we were alone, Carl broke down weeping. How sorry he was for the pain he’d caused his sons and that they could live with him, rent free, forever, because he could never repay them enough to assuage his guilt.
