(Photo taken as a kid at my pap's house. That's one of the only houses I remember as a kid)
I rarely write nonfiction but one of my professor's swears that my life is so interesting that I should write nonfiction instead of fiction. The terrible about nonfiction though is I have trouble exploring my feelings and not wanting my words to hurt others. So I write fiction and incorporate some of the things I've seen in my life into my fiction.
Standing in the front hallway the focal point was always the dark wooden panels that went all the way up the stairs. The texture was smooth and if the sun was beaming in you could sometimes see your reflection. They only stayed that shiny because my mother was constantly insisting that me and my two brothers cleaned it. She would hand us a bottle of Old English furniture polish and a rag and told us we had to do our share. Sometimes we’d clean it really quickly, but most of the time it seemed to take forever. Pappy’s house fascinated me. Every time I walked down those stairs, I’d stop and gaze at the huge stain glass window located near the first landing. That landing was also where I passed out during a freak medical accident. After being treated like a human guinea pig no one ever figured out why I passed out. It was just something that happened occasionally. The window panel was so thick you couldn’t see out of it and no one could see in it. It was splashed with so many shades of yellow, blue, green and red. I loved to feel the smooth cold glass window against my fingers. Even on a warm summer day that window was guaranteed to be cool. Who knew years later the house would fall to pieces and a thief would steal the window. At least that’s how the story goes. This was the same house my uncle caught on fire as a kid because he wanted to make a tent out of his blankets and a window fan. The same uncle stood at the very bottom of the stairs and washed my little brother’s mouth out with soap because he would curse. Kids couldn’t say bad words. These were the stairs that we would use, wrapped in blankets and dragging each other down them as kids. We thought that was fun. My mother thought we were crazy; it was exciting to play on the stairs. The same stairs we would down every day to go to school. These stairs had been around for so long but they were far from worn. They had connected more than generations but held a family together. My mother walked down these same stairs when she went to school. She’d smear her finger prints on the wooden siding not knowing that her kids finger prints would cover hers. These stairs don’t have any foot prints or finger prints anymore. They don’t get much traffic since my pap had passed away and left the house to my uncle. I imagine they are cold and lack the love and laughter. They yearn for attention. I would love the opportunity to polish the wooden panels now, a chance to run my fingers over its smoothness. The stairs seemed to symbolize my pap. He was always connecting the family and holding them together, that’s why his house was always a safe place for anyone. Even if you weren’t family his house treated you so. It was a family treasure so polished and bright. Like pappy, that house loved everyone. Now no one is there to love it. Who knows I might continue to post a little more of my work on my Xanga blog. I don't share my writing that often for some reason I hide all my nonfiction. | 
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