The Fossil Record
Some things never change,
the angle of
the sun at precisely this time
of the
day, for instance, on this
particular
date in the heart of winter. Provided
the day in question isn’t
overcast,
some successor of mine will
peer up this
staircase, right foot
poised above the bottom
tread, humming absently,
thinking of lunch
or dogs or the persistence
of
ignorance in the world
then pause,
his attention drawn by the
small footprints
leading to the top, hugging
the left side
beneath the bannister, each
carefully
pressed into polyurethane, long cured,
a fossil record revealed by
the ever
reliable sun and sheer
happenstance.
Maybe he’ll take a moment
to speculate
on the owner of the stocking
clad feet
commemorated here, running
a
finger over a gritty imprint,
perhaps raising a hand to
the back of
his neck, the hairs standing
on end. I’ll
gently point out the
almost imperceptible
concavity left by the balls
of the feet, as I
hover, unseen just over
his right shoulder, and
note the effort required to
place each step just so and
ask him to imagine, eyes
closed, the moist
tearing sound of each foot
pulled free, heel first,
from the newly finished
wood. An embarrassing
reverie of course, no less
so because he won't
hear a word I say. He’ll follow your path up and
out of sight, leaving me
alone, grateful for winter
sunlight that falls just
so and my failure to
repair these stairs, the
ones you learned to take
in bounds, where I linger, peaceful vapor.
No comments:
Post a Comment