In the hottest days of summer, I feel a chill, walking down the staircase of my memory. I tightly grip the railing as if my quickly-beating heart might knock me off balance. I crane my neck to stare down the steps at the spot that I might fall.

Every footstep sounds loudly and then echoes, echoes, echoes…

With every step, I smell more of the dusty, musty basement smell in the dry air that doesn’t belong to a southern summer.

With the last step, I release the railing and walk to a long metal rectangular box with a sloped lid.

I lift the lid. I see a scoop in the box and lift it out by the handle. I grab a styrofoam cup and scoop the ice pellets into it. I bring the cup to my mouth, tip it up and let the ice fall into my mouth. I crunch the tiny perfect spheres of ice.

They crunch so easily, and they taste cold and musty just like the basement where they’re made.