The Hole in My Ceiling

The hole in my ceiling isn't quite ready.

It isn't deep enough nor wide enough for me to slip into my upstairs neighbor's apartment.

I have been digging for days, and it's taken longer than anticipated. I thought I'd find myself popping out from their floor by now. But, nothing. Not even a hint of light has pressed its way through the plaster.

This all started when my neighbor dropped something on their floor.

My ceiling quaked, and the tiny lightbulb hanging down over my kitchen table wobbled. The flickering of the yellow light made me, for the first time since my wife's passing, feel present in another person's world.

My neighbor started this mess.

And now, I'm doing everything I can to meet them.

I grab the kitchen knife from the sink and my designated metal spoon and get back to work.

My chair isn't stable, but I fixed it with some duct tape and some old pages out of one of my late wife's magazines. They still get delivered sometimes, and I haven't had the courage to call and cancel her order. So, for now, I'm thankful for their arrival, because they really do the trick.

The hole started as a crescent gash. A pop of drywall and plaster in the shape of the spoon's curved mouth.

Then, with the help of the jagged steak knife, I managed to make a complete circle, which I'm rather proud of.

My wife never liked how I left projects unfinished. My little crafting projects often cluttered up our livingroom and my LEGO sets stayed in their boxes.

She'd be elated if she could see me now.

As the days go on, and the hole grows, I begin to daydream more thoroughly of my arrival to the second floor.

Will my neighbor be shocked to find someone popping out from under their rug like a groundhog? Will they be angry at the mess? I hope, as I continue chipping away at the wood and debris, that they will be happy to meet me. I hope that they'll help me out of the floor, which is also my ceiling, and say, "Oh, it's you! Come on in. I've been waiting!"

Something warm like that would be good. We are neighbors, after all.

I dig my spoon through the plaster and strike something hard. I clear away some more of the white flakes to find a pipe. I hit it a few times with my spoon and enjoy the metallic din obstructing my path. When the sound calms and I'm left again with only my breathing, I sigh and look away from the hole.

Forlorn, I step down from the chair and sit on the floor. I look up into the hole and try to imagine there is a hint of light squeezing its way toward me. I need to dig around the pipe if I'm ever going to squeeze my body through and meet my neighbor, who must be waiting patiently on the other side. I can't hear it now, but I'm sure they're tapping their foot and mumbling, "Where could they be? Don't they know I'm waiting?"

I've been meaning to make the hole bigger, anyway. So, I'll try to be positive about this whole pipe business. I don't eat much since my wife's passing. So I'm not as large as I used to be. But still, this adult body won't manage such a tight fit.

I get up from the floor and decide that what's best for now is a break, a few hours to lie in bed. I like to do this when the memories of my wife slip in through the cracks. I like to pretend she's lying beside me, stroking my hair the way she used to when I found myself worn out from all the unfinished projects.

My throat starts to ache from having a good cry. So, I go back to the kitchen to have a glass of warm water. I set the glass in the sink, pick up my spoon, and get back to work.