Visiting my parents' house is like descending through Dante's hell. On the second floor, cool breezes blow from the air conditioning vents. It's comfortable for laying in bed and reading or spreading my suitcase's contents through my old bedroom. On the first floor, it's quite chilly. My parents keep the thermostat set to museum quality cold to make sure their blood circulates as little as possible, thereby preserving them from age. The basement--oh God--is freezing. I imagine I'm visiting the Arctic Circle or the frozen tundra of Russia.
My parents' old cat had thick white fur, and petting him was like snuggling with a baby fur seal. He spent a lot of time in the basement, so I wonder now if his fur was to prevent permafrost from damaging his skin. His fur was so dense but soft that it had a strange ripple effect where the external hairs had clumped together. It moved like some sort of jointed armor against the cold.
I don't need to go to the basement much. It's like a meat storage locker for my childhood down there. Board games, baby books, old photo albums--it's all down there. Even my old dollhouse is still set up. It's fun to go down into the basement and poke around to see what I can excavate. Lacking a baby fur seal coat though, I think I'll skip it this time around.
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