The steps

I have climbed these steps before.  But this is the first time I have really noticed them.  When I was small, I was more worried about my precarious heap of buckets and spades, or rushing to catch up with the longer legs of my siblings.  There was a photograph of them framed in our house, but it was passed over too.

Now, however, when every step is an achievement, every step matters.  I wonder at the amount of work it took for my grandfather to make them.  I see initials, drawn into the cement -somebody who wants to make her mark, fading marks that are mostly trodden on, mostly unnoticed.   The treads get narrower as I climb higher.  I wish there was something to hold onto.  My hands go down to the step above me; solid stone is better than the shaking bushes on either side.  I am leaning on a legacy, the handiwork of a great man.  Every step is history, pushing me upwards, grounding me in something greater than myself.

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