The faint glow from the tiny windows, smudged with fingerprints and cobwebs, falls onto the bookshelf and filters through the musty books. Dust flickers into sight and out again, floating in the air along with the scent of pine and old furniture. The scratchy boards poke into my back as I lean on the wall and rub my hand over the carpet, watching the cat pad around on near silent paws. A book is in my other hand, and as I turn through the pages I catch that smell that always reminds me of ancient texts and memories.
As I bury my nose in my reading, I can hear the steady drip of melting ice outside. Warm, dry and cozy inside the room, underneath all of the kinds of worries and problems I can breathe easy and relax. Despite the dim light and cushioned atmosphere, it's homey and welcoming for all of its age and disuse. The stink of the fire trickles out from the woodstove along with the muted crackling of cinders and charred wood. Upstairs, I can hear the creaking steps of someone walking around on the floor, and the inexpertly spackled walls opposite me groan in sympathy.
In the room opposite, the spluttering drone of the water heater kicks in and the slosh of water rushing through the pipes in the wall startles me from my reading for a moment. The cat, unconcerned, is busy cornering a daddy longlegs and swishing its tail with ridiculous excitement. The light is fading now to the point where a dingy gray glimmering is all that is keeping the room from darkness. I get up, set my book down and drag my feet across the static inducing carpet and click on the lamp, stirring up dust particles as I go.
With the incandescent bulb casting yellow shadows across everything, I pick up my book and migrate to the faded couch. When I sit down, feet up on the scarred coffee table, my reflection in the battered and huge television set copies my casual reading, page after page. Eventually the cat leaves the abused spider to retreat to its hazy web and the bored feline takes up residence beside me, waiting impatiently for attention. It stretches and rolls around, tickling me with its fur and butting its head against my arm. I scratch it behind the ears and it begins is choppy purring, slipping quickly into a shallow sleep.
Even now, the smell of pine or the yellowed pages of an old book take me back to that old cushion on the floor of the basement. The splintering boards of the walls, the near silent hum of the only clock and the utter unfussiness that it recalls. From that old couch that no one can manage to find the time to get rid of and the furry animal that craved any sort of interest, it's still in my mind. I don't know when I'll go back again, because now it's so far away.
