Memories

It's been a while since I posted a story of mine. And one that I just wrote recently. Well here's a non-fiction piece I wrote. (That's a first wow). And not everything is true. And it has one swear word in the end. Well enough putting it off already, here it is.

I sit on the base of the stairs, awaiting mother’s approval to go into the basement. It was spring cleaning day, the big white bins in the neighborhood was just waiting to be filled with junk. And since the rest of the house was tiptop clean, except for the basement. She decided today would be the day to clean it. 

            Only problem was that no one went down in the basement. Except to do the laundry or to iron something of some sorts, occasionally one of us would dump some clothing that we haven’t worn in a while onto the pitiful old brown couch. I would rarely see dad use his study that’s down there. Dust started to collect onto the cluttered books, and CDs. They were just simply unread, unused and unloved. But that’s just not all of what the basement is about, it’s about the memories that has gathered there. It was mainly about the old childhood schoolwork that has somehow gathered there. It was mainly my older sister’s schoolwork though, occasionally my twin’s and mine, and rarely my brother. It was like a pyramid. My older sister is dominating the base, my twin and I hugging the middle, and the teeny tiny top my brother. It was almost if at any moment, he would just fall off.

            Once in a while, I liked to come down here to see who the schoolgirl was for my older sister. Before she turned into a college girl living her life for humanitarian needs, barely giving her family enough fond memories to cherish forever. Yet enough that I can still remember her friendly enough. Her schoolwork mainly consisted of science, terms and formulas, and opinions confusing me, and yet somehow, someway I understand them. She was a genius like me that much was written by her hard work on her projects. There was something that had to deal with fashion for her ninth grade year, her handwriting almost like mine. Her grammar needed to be improved ASAP, unlike mine. Gosh, it was as if I’m rising up to be a miniature version of her, minus the fact that we’re very different. She was born to be a speaker, and I was born to be a writer, both having words wrap warmly around us.

            I blink getting out of my reverie. I just couldn’t see how mother wanted to clean the place up. That holds a piece of her children’s schoolwork selves. “Okay, you can come down now!” she yelled, finally done. I sigh and stand up, and descend the not-really-that-short flight of stairs. The others too attached with their technology to, even come down with me. I dodge some of the laundry that has missed their chance to go in the current washing, and enter the threshold. I don’t gasp, nor do my eyes go wide. My entire being seemed entirely blank, the basement was clean. And it looked oddly nice, the furniture not crooked but polished and having nothing on them the clothes on the couch was just gone, the carpet appearing not to have a hidden stain anywhere. The walls were white and spotless, but all that left was…

            I can hear mother holding her breath, as I make my way to dad’s study. I put my hand on the knob, expecting the whole room not to be dusty. I turned the knob, but it wouldn’t open, remembering that dad had locked it for some reason. Why? Because there’s a dead ninja in there? I think to myself, as I turn around and walk down the hall, to see about the schoolwork. I open the closet door, where it’s all kept. I slowly open the door, silently enjoying the suspense I’m giving mother. It kind of felt like there was a walking dead person, from the way that she’s not breathing. I could smell it before I saw it, my heart beating furiously, and yet I still have the blank composure wrapped securely around me. The smell was one of furniture cleaner, and a tang of ammonia. The closet door was open wide, and I said the three words that just came to my mind and pushing its way to my tongue demanding to be let out.

            “What the hell,” I say in a monotone. The schoolwork was gone; everything about our school selves was simply just gone. And I have a feeling that she just threw it all way, not giving a dime about the memories that have came with it. I can hear mother let out her breath, as I softly close the door. Wondering why it couldn’t be dad’s study to clean, and not the memories. All the while, the three words still continue to whisper around me. “What the hell?”