Start and End

Stairs were my chlidhood. I spent afternoons running up and down them, chasing my neighbours through the stairwell. Stairs were always the start of a new adventure, of a chase, a hunt, a new friend.

Stairs were also an end. Furniture carted down to the garbage disposal area, a family member's body carried downstairs, a neighbour friend moving away.

Today, I stand in the middle of the stairwell. I can't move backwards, back to the start. But I also don't want to move forward, to the end. I'm scared to. I stay, frozen in the middle.

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In the news tomorrow reads the headline: fire engulfs building; many trapped and lost in the stairs.