It’s Mother’s Day, and as I drink my coffee on the couch, in the bedroom above me the mother of the house clears her throat, coughs, rolls the covers from her chest, then swings her legs over the side of the bed, makes contact with the 2×6 tongue-in-groove floor that is also the ceiling above me, and pads across it to her desk at the window. As she does, the floor creaks, despite the best efforts of me and Don (who helped me lay it), ignoring the fact that pale yellow hints of construction adhesive urp out here and there along joist edges above me, not in many but in enough spots so that you can see that
A-We used construction adhesive everywhere, and
B-In spite of our best efforts, notwithstanding the fact that we carefully put but a single quarter to three-eighths inch bead on each four-inch-wide joist, some of that sunny goop inevitably squeezed itself into view to remind us that we alone are not in charge, that the Universe in all its physical manifestations follows inscrutable laws that operate well outside the bounds of our feeble, paltry knowing.
And above all this is the Mother. And She walks, and Her floor, which is our ceiling, creaks.