Lesson 7 – Action / Basement Blues

I opened the cellar door. And simply stood there. Even with light pouring in from the window over the steps, the darkness at the bottom yawned.
‘I can do this,’ I said to myself. ‘This is so silly.’
And yet, I stood still, my breath caught in my throat, my heart pounding against my chest like a hammer in the hand of some fanatical carpenter.
I reached my hand to the wall and flicked on the light switch. Items at the bottom of the steps swam into clarity.
There was nothing there. At least, nothing out of the ordinary.
Holding onto the railing, I began to descend the stairway, one step at a time. When I reached the point where I could peer around to the opening, I could take everything in. Boxes of Barry’s saved items, waiting for him to move to another apartment; beyond that the water line, and the heating system.
I took the last step down, my feet meeting the concrete. Turning in the opposite direction, I could see the washer and dryer, a load of laundry waiting its turn in a basket, and the door leading to the bulkhead.
Across from the laundry and against the wall of the enclosed room, stood a metal etage. The top shelves loaded with games from when the boys were young, the next shelf holding detergent, and the bottom shelves holding some tools, paint brushes, rollers and pans, a bottle of turpentine.
There was nothing else here. Not a thing that could point to the fact that my Harold had died down here. That he had picked up his tool box, and somehow set off the coronary that shut his heart down, and wasn’t found until hours had passed. When I found him.
I placed my elbows on top off the washing machine and dropped my head into my hands, sobs now jagging through my body as I squeezed the tears out.
It didn’t seem fair. The space, just like the rest of the house was as normal as could be. How was it possible that someone who had lived here for forty years could simply be erased?