Below Ground

My neighbor mentioned the storm cellar

under her house, and I remembered

the one from my childhood—

concrete steps worn smooth

from years of descent,

a bare bulb on a wire,

mason jars lined on shelves

like prisoners, like proof

of time preserved in liquid.

I was small. It was enormous.

My mother took me down

when the sirens started,

and I would sit on the bottom step

counting jars, counting

the ways the world could collapse

if the house above us failed,

if concrete was all that stood

between us and the storm.

The bulb would flicker.

I would learn that safety

is just a room underground,

that refuge is temporary,

that we go into the earth

to wait, but the danger

doesn't disappear—it just

takes its time finding us again.

A severe weather warning came through today.

My neighbor mentioned her cellar.

And now I'm thinking about going down,

about descending those worn steps,

about sitting in the dark

and feeling small again,

about whether the fear

ever actually leaves

or if it just waits in the basement,

patient, for the next time

the sky opens up.