The Ladder
Anjali had been standing at the bottom of the ladder for eleven minutes, which was ten minutes longer than the ladder deserved. The loft was her grandfather’s. The key had been in her pocket since the funeral. Everyone agreed the boxes up there could wait until spring, when someone with a truck and a free weekend could “do it properly.”
She put one foot on the first rung to see what it felt like. The rung held. She put the other foot beside it.
“Are you going up there now?” her mother called from the kitchen.
“Just looking.”
It is possible to be just looking and already be on the fourth rung. The loft smelled of cedar and old rain. In the light from the gable window, dust turned slowly, like something being decided. There were boxes, yes. There was also his green coat, hanging from a nail as if he had stepped out for a minute.
She did not do it properly. She did it at once, badly, in her socks, laughing and crying in the same breath, with the coat around her shoulders and the whole afternoon in front of her.
Below, her mother had stopped asking questions and was putting the kettle on for two.
Invented. No real person is described, and the story is not a portrait of anyone born under this sign.