How strange the basement looks at night, dim bulbs flaring, soft water cascading down the stone foundation. I give thought to my great-grandfather Nigel heaving these stones, his heart straining with the effort, with the future, as he pulled up each stone one by one, finding whatever flat side might best civilize nature into this structure, keep the chaos at bay with straight lines and mortar. I lean on a wall, letting the water wick into my nightdress. Lime and hay and sand, the grit of it scraping my arms. I don’t care; I like the sudden sensation of feeling something. I want to arouse shame for having left my marriage or nostalgia for my boys, but there is nothing. Well. There is something. There is a jumbled yearning to step out of this skin and into another. The boys will come back to
