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January 21, 2014
My son comes home and climbs the stairs. The snow swirls outside beneath blinding sun. I climb the stairs, old stairs, and I wonder how much longer I will have to climb those narrow dark stairs up to that third floor apartment in Canada. There are days they seem to go on forever like some epic trial. I can see the wooden lip of each step, the wear patterns and while I do not remember if they were actually carpeted or not, it is the bare wood I see as I climb those stairs in my mind day after day.