In The Family’s Home

In The Family’s Home

From down the
ivory railed staircase
I so often
ventured across, the unashamed voices
of my parents circle
like the dusty records Grandma packed away. Cowered in the drafty sheets, suddenly aware of the
little boy curled up next to me. His eyes shut tightly.
The littler one still sound asleep in his room.
I slip past the door.

The carpeted floor
creaks beneath my
foot, even though I barely
press down.
The handle of the linen closet accidentally brushes against me, scraping against the blood­red chipped­paint wall.
The familiar scent
of saltwater grazes.

Each descension of stair carpet, gripping rails of alabaster,
sends small shocks of pain
through the old wooden planks layered underneath. The railings cannot
hold, and groan together in agony.

I can’t move past the
third stair from the top.
Knees pull into chest
as I sink down.
I try to hold myself together
with my hands, but even
those can’t reach.
I miss the records most.
— Y.W. 3/29/15

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