Thursday

It was a couple of hours past sunset.

"Six, seven, eight...there are eight stairs," he told me as we felt our way up the staircase. The stairway was narrow, the air was stale from lack of sunlight and open space, and the dark was the kind that breathes. I followed him up one, two, three flights until I saw a door with a thin line of gold shining weakly around its frame.

He flung the door open.

"Mom! My teacher wants to talk to you!"

In the pallid glow, I saw walls lined with the kind of clothes racks that come in a box and require assembly. Three walls of cotton stripes, faded pants, sad-looking sneakers, and unmatched socks.

"Hi."

"Hi," I said. "I just wanted to let you know what a great job he did tonight. He was wonderful, and I'm really proud of him."

A smile, then, "Thanks."

We exchanged names, and then she told me to be careful going down the stairs. "For some reason, the landlord doesn't think it's important to put a light in our stairwell."

One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight...

As I sat back in the van I realized I was a different person. I have heard of Poverty, of Hopelessness, of Paralysis, of Pain. Now I know them.

All it took was a mere minute and a handful of seconds, a dark stairwell and a light that couldn't beat the black.