The Stairs

I love Amber C. Haines’ writing. And she is inviting us to write with her on a concrete word prompt. Today its stairs. You may recall The Necklace. You will want to go read Amber—she has a truly lovely way with words. Her voice is distinctive and full. You won’t want to miss the words she weaves; art. Pure. Simple. Art. Her words. I write in good company when I write in community with Amber.

You could mark a life
by the number you choose. And by the speed
pace, rate,
like a heart rate.
The rate you take
the sairs.

The child me chose
to ride a bicycle down.
Child me
thought
it sounded
like a good
idea
at the time.

Grown me, well
they never grow
tired of telling
the tale.
It has a life
of its own.

What child rides
a bicycle down
a staircase?

The one who is
child full
of life
and child
full of wonder
wondering what
joy lies
in going down
a different
way. Not the
route
all the others
took.

And two’s and three’s
at a time
mark youth
she skips many
unnecessary steps
tedious boredom
in going a
decidedly predictable
way.
Life has much
to offer.
Why waste time
going up slowly
when you can
run down three-by-three.

The first
time he said I love you
there on a flight
of fancy stairs
frozen there
on them
frozen
by the words
Numb in love
The Patient One
held me
captive
in and on the
stairs.
Caught in a word web
of love.
The bridal portrait
tells a story
hanging from a nail
in the well of the
stairs.
She said I do
He did too.
Months later
bride me
portrait
speaks
to words
said in love on
the stairs
before the three
steps to the altar.
After that
its two by two tandem
taking the
stairs
together
for life.
Taking the stairs
A baby
In tow.
More babies
In tow.

They measure the heart rate.
After all. They mark
they measure
they record.

And after a new hip
Older me practices the
drill
in the stairwell
at the hospital
You can’t go
home until
you can climb the
stairs.
I am 52 with a body part
man made, not God-made.
My first prosthetic.
She climbed with a limp
for awhile.
She climbed
with pain
for a season.
She left her limp
behind.

They measure like a
metronome.
They measure speed and rate
Like rings of a tree, telling
age
They tell the narrative
of the life.

Up, down,
slow
fast
alone
well
sick
whole
scared
hopeful
tired
lonely
in love.

The steps on the steps and the stairs hold secrets to a life, lived ascending and decending,

The stairs.

Measuring marking a life, like breath.

Writing the story with every step taken,
a page turns.

the

stairs.

until she’s climbing a stairway

to
heaven.

the

end.

Counting gifts with Ann. Grateful for

*A crisp cool air in the warm deep South, peeks of a change, her name is Autumn

*A walk and a talk with a friend

*Such sweet new friends through the blog

*Such generous and kind friends through twitter

*Restored faith in social media for the good it can be when used rightly

*More and more a passion for writing and more and more grateful for God allowing me to see, use, and steward the gift

*A glimpse into the hope-filled future for a child and his college plans. God is good in revealing daily, that there is a hope, always. Hope for good things. Trusting Him to show us His plan.

*A long heart to heart with a friend. We sat in the dark at church after the last light had been turned off and dove into parenting with our hearts and our words. Grateful for this friend. Grateful for common ground on parenting daughters.

And linking with Ann today at A Holy Experience dot com.

And with Laura

18 thoughts on “The Stairs

  1. Oh my word, Elizabeth. I love this marking of a life in steps and stairs. This is beautiful. And this — “They measure like a
    metronome.They measure speed and rate Like rings of a tree, telling age They tell the narrative of the life.” And you riding down the stairs with unbridled zest — what a narrative that is. Yes!

    1. Thank you that read and walk out this writing journey in community with me. I cherish you feedback. I cherish your words, friend. I am smiling again recalling your words, in humility…in humility my friend.

  2. Oh my, Elizabeth, Beautiful and breath-taking. I wasn’t sure where the poem was going with the little girl riding down stairs, but you weave so beautiful, it’s like a sacred story you’re telling me with real words, real raw thoughts, not what you think you “ought” to say–I *love* that. Oh, definitely keep writing friend. I have renewed passion for it too–and yes, grateful God has put me on this path, that He’s calling out the gifts He’s placed there, and He says it’s good. Love to you.

    1. Nacole, you bless. I am ecouraged by your blue box words, couldn’t be more valuable than if they were from Tiffany’s. This little blue box holds gold. Thank you friend for saying loveliness into my heart.

    2. Nacole, you bless. I am ecouraged by your blue box words, couldn’t be more valuable than if they were from Tiffany’s. This little blue box holds gold. Thank you friend for saying loveliness into my heart. And we’ll keep writing, shoulder to shoulder….won’t we now.

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