Back home climbing the stairway was tiring. It was fifteen steps, a turn, seven steps, another turn and five steps more to the first floor. The rooms upstairs got neglected due to my avoidance of climbing the stairs.
It was (is) lovely. The railing was handmade from wood. It looked grand. My (late) husband R had let me choose the design for it. Every time I look at it, I fall in love with it all over again.
When our grandchild H was a baby, he would crawl on all fours to the head of stairs, when ever the door of his bedroom would be open by mistake. He would grab the railing to stand. To fill in the gaps between the wooden posts R made an intricate pattern of rope, so that H wouldn’t slip through and suffer an injury.
I have not removed the rope. It’s still there. I don’t have the heart to remove it although there is no need for it now.
Here my home has only a short set of stairs. The building is on a slope. I live on the first floor, but there are minimum steps to climb. It’s perfect for me — not tiring.
Daily prompt: Stairway
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