anti:freeze

construction site in the Pearl at night

The concrete walls and turquoise glow remind me of the basement in my childhood house. It was moldy and wet, with water leaks springing from every corner and a sludgy, toxic moat. The moat was my father's idea. He took a jackhammer to the bare concrete floor and worked his way around the perimeter while we all plugged our ears upstairs. It was the only way he knew to stop the water, and disgusting as the moat looked, it actually worked - for a while. (Later, I would learn he had other plans that simply went unrealized. The moat was never meant to last.)

I hated its rough concrete bricks (painted turquoise for the only party ever hosted there) and the weirdly cheery curtains, decorated with poppy blossoms and coated in furry mold inside the folds. I hated the texture and temperature of the floor, how when my toes scraped a certain way, I could taste the must on my tongue. But I loved the emptiness. Or maybe not the emptiness, but the sense that the basement could still become. The space had potential. Energy.

I wonder how the Pearl will feel when all the empty spaces are sealed, the curtains and blinds closed, the doors locked.