These oak stairs lead down to the snarls of dress-up clothes, all toulle and apron strings on the floor, to the computer where I write and where we try to make sense of money, and to the couch where we play board games and watch movies on the boxy TV.
The stairs carry us up to bedrooms — all three. The ones periwinkle and the one restful, juicy blue. The one with the bunks, the one with the books and toys and the room where we talk and love.
I can’t be numb when I go down the stairs, or when I go up. It’s this life I’ve been given. This going upstairs. This going down, one by one.
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