I am sitting here, in the little open area at the top of our stairs, surrounded by bits of wire and nails, insulation debris and removed doorknobs, light bulbs and levels.
Above me, in the small crawl space of an attic into which I have never dared venture, are sounds that, were their source unknown, would be terrifying. Particularly if you’ve ever read Ray Bradbury’s “Trapdoor”. Giant rodents? Murderers crawling through the rafters seeking entry into my home? But no, it is Mike. I can’t tell you what he is doing up there exactly (because I don’t know), but every now and then more gray fluff floats out of the trap door above me; a light switch, that once dangled from a hole in our ceiling, now sits proudly flush with a wall; and a can light that once wasn’t . . . now is.
I don’t know for certain why I am up here – amidst all this detritus – when the couch downstairs would be so much cozier. Perhaps it is because I suspect that, at any moment, Mike will need this laptop to google some electrical question and I ought to keep it close by and at the ready. Or, perhaps, it is because I am feeling a bit guilty relaxing so happily as he slaves away amidst stifling insulation, and my being up here, closer to him, seems like . . . some small offering of support: I will be able to rush to get a light bulb to him should he need it. I will be able to compliment when it seems a compliment is in order. And since that is pretty much the depth and breadth of my abilities in a project like this, I am here, ready to hand out light bulbs and bestow compliments, with all the energy and conviction my little heart can muster.
However, my intent was not to write about house projects. In truth, I had no real intent at all; just typing away a little mindless drivel, admiring how my once slow-and-hesitant typing fingers (for which my high-school friends often teased me) now comfortably glide over the keyboard, and thinking of my dad and his type-writer days and feeling, proudly, just a little bit like him (though I can’t yet type with my head back and eyes closed -- looking, for all the world, like I am sound asleep with little sentient fingers).
. . . . . . . Later . . . . . . .
And while the above was turning out to be a lovely little night-time posting, and might, for all any of us know, have turned into something truly wonderous, Mike finished all he was going to finish for the night and the two of us made our way downstairs to find something suitable to watch on Netflix. Now it is 1:00 am and I don’t stay up that late. Midnight late? Yes. 1:00 am late? Noooo. So, goodnight to you all.