ants

If you were to go down the flight of stairs in the kitchen of my house, an uncertain, swinging light bulb would reveal through splintered and intermittent rays a dank basement cast in concrete and cinder block. As you descend the narrow, creaking wooden stairs spotted with chipping varnish, avoiding the low ceiling strangled by heat and plumbing pipes, you become aware of dimly-lit, almost primitive surroundings, reminiscent of an ancient, prehistoric cave. The floor is coated in dust and soot, the walls stained with a million once brilliant colors of paint, from crusades begun but never finished long ago.

When I was young, I loved this place. I would sit beneath the steps in the dark and look upon sights unseen, in the musty warmth of the boiler, taking in the cellar-smell all around me. All through my childhood it was refuge. My brothers would not seek me there because of the flight of stairs seemingly ready to break at every step, and the general g...