I stand in the middle of my childhood bedroom and let my roots spread through the floorboards. Thousands of pounds of dirt push at cracks in the basement’s concrete walls. Enormous foundation beams creak under the pressure of a century. If I let this house sink into itself and fall through the earth, it will emerge in an opposite world where my roots are branches spreading towards sunlight. I’ll live down here with the ghosts of my parents wavering between flesh and air. The apparitions of my childhoods will repeat themselves in these deep rooms until they vanish completely, when I’ll only feel a thin chill walking through their bodies. One day, I’ll wake up alone, the lights will shudder for half a heartbeat, and this house will restore itself to the upper world with no memory of its reflection. This empty bedroom is where I began. If you listen closely, you can hear my roots pushing through concrete.