She stopped on the fourth
step, hand on the
railing, unsure which
floor she had come from.
Upstairs, the dishes were
waiting. Downstairs, the
conversation she had been
avoiding for three days.
In between, just the
sound of her own
breathing.
She sat on the step.
Not deciding anything.
Not fixing anything. Just
letting the staircase hold
her weight for a moment.
Sometimes the in-between
is the only honest place
we have.