I’m sitting in the kitchen of my apartment, contemplating how I will transport this wooden, thirty year-old table my mother lent me. It’s one of the finer things we’ve owned—she’s owned, and for longer than she’s had me. I am determined to not ruin its stride or the condition my mother has kept it in, despite the paint chips from school projects and the wear on the legs from being carried to each new home. It has spent the last fifteen years on a cement floor, in my mother’s basement. Now, it is here and in use.

The table isn’t as long as I remember, not as oval. There are sesame seeds spread across it, two here, three there.

On the ceiling above me are three holes that appear as black dots if you look quickly. For the past two weeks, my roommates and I have feared ceiling collapse as walls are being demolished above. The exposed pipes running through this kitchen are clanging as if to say, why can’t you do something as workers hit them in the process. It has been raining drywall and wood screws and nails attached. Some in trash bags, some loose, hitting the fire escape before the yard.

Because the floor is on a slant, the fridge doors pop themselves open. Our milk spoils fast. We had and might still have, some unwelcome pets. But it seems to be improving. I spend some nights here and most days when I don’t have class. Empty pizza boxes keep finding their way to the floor.

I want stability.

Brandi Spering resides in South Philadelphia where she writes and paints. Her book, This I Can Tell You, will be released by Perennial Press, Winter 2020. Her work can also be found in Perennial Press’ Super/Natural: Art and Fiction for the Future, as well as Stardust Magazine’s Issue 5: Stills. More at Brandispering.com