There are spiders in the basement. Clockwork-legged creatures that skitter across the cold cement floor like unwelcome thoughts. There are boxes, too. Precarious pyramids of brown corrugated cardboard filled with mistakes, regrets, silly accumulations and outgrown notions. Waiting to be moved out. (As soon as I am able to move on.) And most distressing of all-damp, heavily shadowed corners. I hesitate to imagine what trepidations might be lurking within those dark spaces.
I’m inclined to flee. Nail the basement door shut. Never again force my shuddering self to venture into the depths of this bare-bulb lighted pit. Turn my back and whimper whatever.
Still, among the complicated chaos, I discover some gems. Radiant moments, resplendent memories, carefully packed away in colored tissue paper. I carry them upstairs. Illuminate them in optimistic daylight. And find sanity once more.
This week we were asked to use the third definition of the word whatever-(adverb) Used to show that something is not important.