The lights in the basement of my parents house are flickering menacingly, buzzing. I hold the door closed from whatever it is that is inside. It pushes against it. Saying nothing.

Eventually I give out and it opens, but it is just my brother. He explains that he was interested in checking out what was wrong. And thinks there is amusement to be gained from bringing others down there. I explain to him that the current situation down there is untenable, the light will soon burn out.

The family is sharing a small plate of cold pulled pork for a meal, globules of gelatin stuck to it all over. It was leftovers from takeout. And it was decided that this was a particularly special morsel, exceptionally good, high quality stuff. For whatever reason we don't expect to ever be able to have this again, and so we ought to savor it. We end up putting more than half of the meagre scraps away at my brother's request. He thinks it will go well with the basement. I mix the remainder into some mashed potatoes so that it warms and melts. I let my mom try some, she seems to like it.