Home is Where You Don't Need to See

At the bottom of the stairs in my apartment building I stand, worn out, and just for a moment, I shut my eyes. It feels good, restful, and I keep them shut as I climb up to our apartment.

I run my hands blind along the banister, the grain of the worn, old wood smooth beneath my fingers while my feet shuffle on the threadbare carpet, feeling my way up to each landing until I'm finally in front of my door. The keys fit into my hands, easy and familiar, and I let myself in and stand in the dark while the cat weaves between my ankles, meowing.