The sheets are torn from my electric fits.
Another from my dredged archives. That year the wind finally threw the 100+ year door to the roof from its hinges. It was blown down, suspended between the collapsing walls, on the stairs where we lay glass light fixtures, shredded tobacco, resin-caked pipes. These lay adjacent, also, to the other door from the same time, that one painted green. It is to our porch, and that is now where this door rests. The squirrels have built a nest behind it that extends into the walls. We don't tell because they are more welcome than the ghosts in the basement.