They are the only ones who trip me. I am the only one who cleans them. Six uneven stairs with uneven boards and splintering sides. Six who are out of place but fit in. Six stairs worn smooth by years of treading shoes. From the window I can see them, but my mother says to stop staring.

Their memories are long. They have felt three generations of feet walking over them. They stay put and go far and watch noiselessly with their inconspicuous staring and silent laughter. This is how they live.

If one cracked under pressure, the others would surely bend like fingers on a piano, each following the last. Live, live, live, stairs whisper as I pass over. They love.

When I am too alone and too uneven to keep living, when I am a drop of salt in the ocean, then I walk over the stairs. When there is nowhere else to walk on the lane. Six who stay in spite of the rain. Six who are above and remain above. Four whose only purpose is to see and see.