The backbone of my home.

 

The Banister

Large, heavy wood —

1970s dark varnish.

The backbone of my home.

Four steps up,

then the bend —

nine steps,

the wave where fifty five years

of hands have worn it smooth.

The way it remembers.

Tactility.

Patterns pressed into carpet.

All the life before

is carved into the grain —

chipped,

the toll of living.

Built in the seventies,

beating at the heart.

It holds.

It bears the wear and tear.

Every night up to bed,

every morning down.

Warmth, touch, wood —

the house’s backbone.

We skipped down it.

We pulled ourselves up it,

from tots to OAPs.

Its wood, its story.

Its strength.

The thing that catches you

when you slip.

The thing you grip

when you ache,

when you’re tired,

when you climb toward sleep.

The backbone.

The banister and the stairs

are ribs, a body —

supporting,

holding you up,

helping you down —

from young

to old.