Old

Unfortunately, the flight of stairs was far too steep and far too tall fading off into the nether reaches of the house, for the old woman to climb. She stood at the bottom of the staircase looking up, one hand resting on the banister, a shiny carved piece of cherry wood that the old woman could see her reflection in when she looked closely and over the rims of her glasses. She sighed. She did so want to be able to climb the staircase, one step then another, to see her brand new granddaughter who lay asleep in her crib upstairs. The old woman had entered through the front door without being let in. She hadn’t knocked or rung the doorbell. She had quietly turned the polished brass knob and entered, stepping lightly on the plush Indian rug of reds and oranges. She had peered into the parlor and saw nothing but an abandoned silver tea set and mostly empty china mugs. She heard rustlings upstairs, but no footsteps. She thought she could make out coos from the baby, and the old woman wondered what her granddaughter looked like. She hadn’t seen her daughter in over twenty years, and only new about the birth from the daily paper that always posted the comings and goings of the townspeople. She longed to see her estranged daughter, to see the crinkles around her eyes, and the softness of her cheek. She longed to see if her granddaughter had the same brilliant blue eyes, and dimple in her chin. As she looked up the staircase, she wondered how she had become so old, so decrepit. She turned and sat herself down slowly on the third step up, knees bent and cracking, a steady hand on the banister to help her down. She would just wait. And she wondered if, when her daughter saw her back leaning against the banister, he silver hair pulled tight into a bun, whether she would just decide to stay upstairs forever.