Poetry
1 min
Footsteps
Brie DEBUSSCHERE
I would listen for those footsteps.
Not because I wanted to.
But because I had to.
Because they always told me
what kind of night it would be.
I knew them by heart.
The angry ones that would hit hard,
like he was stomping the day out of his body.
The sad ones were slower,
heavier,
like he was dragging himself up the stairs.
And the normal ones those were rarest of them
they were steady and almost forgettable,
but I never forgot them.
I could tell by the way he climbed the steps.
If I should keep reading,
or turn off the light.
If I should leave the blanket loose,
or pull it tight like it might shield me.
I used to breathe as quiet as I could,
like maybe if I was small enough,
the stairs would swallow the sound.
And somehow,
even now just like the
when footsteps should just be footsteps,
the sound of stairs still makes my stomach clench.
Still makes me gasp for air
Still makes me feel like I should be listening.
Just in case.
A Bronco Story. Submissions are from the Western Michigan University community.
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