My father’s darkroom.
Back when he was alive, I would spend countless hours sitting down there with him. The soft red couch he had is still there and feels familiar to my skin as I tuck my legs under myself and close my eyes. This room is where I go to do serious thinking – it’s quiet and calming and all mindblocks vanish as soon as I close the heavy, carved mahogany door behind me.
The air is cool in an unusual way for late June in upstate New York, and a soft breeze moves around the smell of the developing chemicals – stored in neat rows behind a dark curtain to keep them safe from light – and it heightens my memories even more.