The Staircase Does Not Stop

The butcher block counter in the kitchen smells like yeast and old lemon polish. I see the green enamel cup on the sill, where the dust settles thick. Someone stands near the pantry entrance; the light shifts on their coat sleeve, and I feel the pressure of recognition, a name I almost speak. On the wooden folding table, a crayon drawing lies flat. A house with a chimney on the left side, marked with a bright yellow crayon. The staircase descends and ascends at once, the steps creating a sound that travels up and down through the wall. It weighs three hundred pounds when I press my hand to the bannister, a weight that should belong to nothing. The floorboards here are rough walnut, cool against my bare feet. I watch the stranger’s mouth move, the curve of their smile not matching their eyes.