Wait…

He pauses,

hesitates…

Were they always

there?

That set of stairs –

flaking yellow paint

& crumbling;

so unlike the house

from which

they quietly climb

away …

Those stairs

that burn pale

with jaundiced light,

& curve dustily

clockwise,

upward,

out of sight…

Uncertain,

he climbs,

each step releasing

a sifting,

chalky powder,

each step releasing

memory…

Until…

On the landing,

peering beyond

the doorway’s open arch,

he views the room —

stark,

bare of ornament but

for one small, deep-set

window;

two twin beds thrust

hard against

the wall…

With grief,

a clutch of heart,

he remembers

all.

No place

for children,

for a child.

With flood & rush,

it returns &

he remembers.

O, he remembers

a l l.

 

 

— C.Birde, 3/20