Our house has stairs. Quite a few stairs. I have never lived in a house with stairs before now. There are two steps leading from the living room to the kitchen. There are 4 or 5 steps down to the guest room, laundry room and garage. There is a flight of stairs leading up to the bedrooms.
When I was a kid, I thought living in a 2-story house meant you had "arrived." Arrived where, I am not sure. I just knew that I often read books where kids had their bedrooms upstairs. I liked that word. Upstairs. I tend to agree with my mom now, however, that stairs are just annoying when you are carrying laundry or trying to vacuum. But that is not the point of this post.
When I walk down the stairs each morning and throughout the day, I think of the same thing. The same person.
Edna St. Vincent Millay
Yup. I think of Edna throwing herself (falling?) down the stairs to her death. I remember reading her biography and thinking how that death was not worthy of her. I would hate to end my life by falling down a flight of stairs. Ouch. And really? Great Poet Dies in Fall.... Down the Stairs? Not very poetic, is it?
Or is it? Hmmm...