What Basements Keep

I got halfway down the stairs

and the smell stopped me. Cold stone,

wet newspaper, iron, something

like paint thinner that's given up

being dangerous.

It wasn't his house anymore.

It wasn't anyone's.

On the shelf a coffee can

of mismatched screws, rusted shut,

the label half-peeled and turned

to face the wall. Years of that.

Years of facing the wall

and holding things no one would come for.

I carried three boxes up

and went back each time

and each time the smell

said the same thing: you've been here.

Not this basement. Every basement.

The one with the pull-chain bulb

that swung after you let go.

The one where your uncle's deep freeze

hummed all night to no one.

My friend called down, you okay?

I said yeah, the way you do

when you mean

I just remembered something

I never knew I had.