The basement in our little house served the functions of an attic and a storage space for beer cartons.
“I’ll be so glad to have this cleaned up,” my mother said, digging her nail underneath the pull tab of a Coors Light. A pop, a hiss, and immediately after, a long, needy guzzling.
“Oh, Sam, I’ll be so glad,” she repeated. “You just decide what you’d really like to keep. There’s such a thing as sentimental value, of course, but we haven’t touched these in years and years.” She took a swig of the beer thoughtfully. “So how valuable are they really? And who knows, it might free up enough space for a ping pong table.”
“Works for me,” I said, returning her smile. A ping pong table had been on my Christmas wishlists once upon a time. Mother must have run into one of the lists. It was the only way she would bring it up now, full of anticipation as if there would be enough money or energy for ping pong.
I rolled up the sleeves of my sweater and lifted down a cardboard box at random from the pile that took up half the basement. The boxes were uniform and stacked in a way they might be at a warehouse, cubes next to cubes upon cubes, an almost satisfying grid if not for its stifling presence under the low ceiling. Aside from the labels, written with a sharpie in neat, slanted cursive, there was no indication that family memorabilia were stored
…
Lukasz Grabowski emigrated from Poland to the United States at the age of nine. When not tinkering with his latest story, he studies at Harvard Law School, reads, and watches a considerable number of horror movies (a hobby his partner lovingly indulges).