Up the stairs at my Grandmother's house, halfway between the first and second floors, there is a small landing. On that landing the railing for the stairways begins, and curling at the start of that railing is a sort of pillar. The pillar is round on the top and made of wood.
Whenever I run up or down the stairs, I put my hand on the round pillar railing. Usually I am compelled to pause and stroke the round wood in a circular motion.
It is smooth and soft, like solid silk. It's a pleasant feeling, and I run my hand over its cool surface again and again.
But as I pat it and pet it, something changes. I begin to touch the grains that are a part of it; every little detail is felt under my hand. In a way, it is a power. Yet I don't know if I enjoy this feeling. And furthermore, I am so engrossed in the sudden ability that I almost forget how the wood feels. Is it still soft? Or has it turned hard now?
So I am forced to make a decision. Which do I prefer more: the beginning, full of pleasant softness, or the end, full of a strange power of feeling detail. Is one more beautiful than the other? Perhaps I should just expect what I will have every time I run up the stairs at my Grandmother's; that the beginning of stroking the wooden pillar will always feel softly pleasant and the end always detailed, strange and amazing, and that is the way it will be, until my hand slips away and I proceed to my room on the second story.
In this way, I must choose between childhood or womanhood in my Life.
Whenever I run up or down the stairs, I put my hand on the round pillar railing. Usually I am compelled to pause and stroke the round wood in a circular motion.
It is smooth and soft, like solid silk. It's a pleasant feeling, and I run my hand over its cool surface again and again.
But as I pat it and pet it, something changes. I begin to touch the grains that are a part of it; every little detail is felt under my hand. In a way, it is a power. Yet I don't know if I enjoy this feeling. And furthermore, I am so engrossed in the sudden ability that I almost forget how the wood feels. Is it still soft? Or has it turned hard now?
So I am forced to make a decision. Which do I prefer more: the beginning, full of pleasant softness, or the end, full of a strange power of feeling detail. Is one more beautiful than the other? Perhaps I should just expect what I will have every time I run up the stairs at my Grandmother's; that the beginning of stroking the wooden pillar will always feel softly pleasant and the end always detailed, strange and amazing, and that is the way it will be, until my hand slips away and I proceed to my room on the second story.
In this way, I must choose between childhood or womanhood in my Life.
