The Lady Upstairs

It was at the same time on a different day.  The creaking sound of the steps never faded away.  I was a little young child no more than nine years old.  My gait was quick my mind was ready to explore.  Like the strike of the clock I knew it was time to run to the living room and prepare for my watch.   Balancing my eye over the hole as I stared steadying my light body onto the dining room chair.  One step at a time she landed on the same spot taking her time as if the clock would stop.  I held my hand over my chest waiting for her appearance to come down the stairs.  It was like watching a movie eager for the thrill as if the image floating would miss her last and tumble with a great might onto the last stair.  Her figure was clothed in an old worn night gown.  Was she a widow or a older child I feared?  Her hair was always braided into two soft knotted plats with streaks of gray that peek-a-boo between the black threads.  A body that may have danced in the past alive and fill of merry now replaced on the with the passing of time as a heavily-built frame took over without a twinkle in her eye.  Her olive hairless calves clung  like life to the white socks leaning over her knees.  The slippers were of some type of corduroy material dragged behind her heels.  She was always mumbling and chewing something dark, but I never knew if it was candy or chocolate as it rolled in her lined mouth.  She took her long nails and opened the glass paneled lobby door.  It was misty with dew and needed a good wash.  If only she knew an audience was always present, perhaps she would take a bow.