The Stairs Go Both Ways

The railing is white enamel. The air smells of wet loam and cut rye. I stand on the back patio, the stone cool under my bare heel. The garden bench holds a yellow envelope marked with my script and the date July 12. I slide the letter open. Inside, the ink has bled so much it forms the shape of a bird’s wing. Above the hedge, the staircase begins to ascend and descends simultaneously, its steps forming a helix of light and shadow. I know the ache that belongs to her wrist, the persistent ache that settles deep when she cannot reach the third shelf. My fingers trace the rough paper, feeling the tremor of the pen that wrote this, a tremor that belongs to my sister.