We are moving soon.
Getting ready to move has stirred a lot of memories. We have two flights of stairs.
The first Christmas morning, the boys tiptoeing like elephants
“Is it time yet, can we go down stairs?”
“No, go back to bed, it’s only half past four”
Twenty minutes later “No, it’s not even five yet!
Go back to bed!”
The time of a storm, the thunder and lightning.
He ran up, and stood, shaking, at the top of the stairs.
“Are you ok? “
“No, I am scared”
“You are safe, I am here” as I hugged him.
We made guitars, out of cardboard.
They air guitared them, whilst walking down the stairs.
In time to the music
Blasting around the house.
Whilst we howled with laughter.
When I took the call about Grandad.
I sat alone on the stairs.
The boys came, they saw, they knew.
We sat together. We snuggled together.
We were going to be ok.
Two weeks later, getting ready for Grandad’s funeral.
Standing on the stairs.
Trying to be brave, whilst feeling so sad.
Eyes fixed, so as not to cry.
Them trying hard to smile and me saying “It’s ok to cry”
Hearing that voice. Knowing what was coming next.
That voice from the top of the stairs,
As you run to help, knowing it’s too late.
As he’s uttering the words:
“Dad, I’m going to be sick…” and he is sick, everywhere.
The time you stand and look
Down the stairs.
At the smashed pictures.
The broken ornament
And debris strewn down the stairs.
The time he stands in front of you.
At the top of the stairs.
He spits right in your face.
Screaming at you.
As the spit trickles down your face.
When he has ripped a curtain pole from the wall.
Him holding the pole above me whilst I stood on the stairs,
He asked what I would do when he smashed my head in.
I answer: “Someone will look after me, I will be taken care of,
But the police will talk to you. Put the pole down” and he put the pole down.
The times I sat, phone in my hand.
I didn’t know what to do, so I sat on the stairs
I didn’t know where he was.
The police were looking for him. I sat and waited.
For the phone to ring, or the door to open
When he had slammed his door again and AGAIN.
I shouted up the stairs.
Not thinking, and in anger.
“Do that once more, you’re grounded until you’re 30!!!”
He calmly opened his door and smugly said “Oh really?!”
As the three of us, struggling to lift,
Carry a wardrobe up the stairs.
We should have planned it better
Getting the giggles didn’t help.
Surely two lifting at the bottom would have been better?
The time his hamster was sick
We returned home, he went upstairs.
After a short time, he called down from his room.
We sat together, on the top step, whilst he held her lifeless body.
They hold so many memories for our family.
They are simply stairs.
But they echo our journey, of a family muddling along.
Trying our best, like everyone else.
Coming down them each morning and starting a-fresh.
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