姥姥的屋
Basement room.
Tucked away in the very edge of this house, the corner room stands in a strange limbo between the past and the present. It’s completely cut off from any other space, except for a tiny window above that lets in a weak shaft of northern sun at the best of times. It’s has a strange musty scent, but always stays cool in the summer.
I sometimes come here on the hottest nights when the basement is four or five degrees cooler than my bedroom. I’d stare up at the antiquated fluorescent tube light, noting how the reflector always appears brighter than the rest of the ceiling no matter how dark the room gets. Time goes by slower here and you start becoming disoriented in the most pleasant way possible.
I wasn’t the only one who felt this. When we moved in, my brother — fourteen at the time, called this room his for the privacy it gave. When Mother gets into a fight or if she just needs space, she comes here to sow. And when my grandparents on my Dad’s side first came to Canada, my grandma on mother’s side lived here to avoid seeing them.
For these reasons I feel this room to be profoundly sacred. It acts like a connecting thread to the people that were here before me. Every time I open the door, I can remember grandma’s laugh when I can down to mix inks with her, or when mom showed me how she tailored my clothes. More importantly, I’ve started to understand the feeling they must’ve felt staying here: one of relief and refuge from the chaotic life happening right above them.
By now, the room has been with me for 20 years. It’s seen me use it to play hide and seek, to run from my parents, to cry about loss. It remains empty and dark most of the time, but when I open it’s doors in times of need, that familiar musty scent has never once failed to bring me to times when everything was much, much simpler.