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.