They hung images of their children’s achievement in the stairwell, while in my parents’ there hung only mirrors. They had been having lunch when I arrived. After I’d eaten, I noticed myself standing too long in that skylit hallway, staring ever closer at pictures of birthday parties. Of someone else’s dark and remote past.
Peering down at my hands I know that I can never go back there. The hole I made in the photograph collage will be apparent to everyone with eyes. For the display in my own stairwell, however, I will be lucky if anyone says a word.