Vertical Travel
The summer of no breeze, six men carried an enormous fan up the stairs of my grandmother’s four-story townhouse and installed it in the roof. At night, it hauled in dead air like cloth from a bolt. I lay in bed, hearing June bugs bat the screens.
When my grandmother’s emphysema advanced, she had an elevator inserted at the stairwell’s center. I refused to ride it: through the white ironwork cage, you could see the fan’s blades whirling above. She waved as her tan pumps disappeared beyond the ceiling. We held our breath, waiting to see if she would return.
Photo Credit: Émilie Gillet
It’s good she didn’t descend to the basement, angels don’t reside there. Good story.
Gorgeous writing!
Much appreciated, Sarah!
Gorgeous imagery.
Thank you, Kelly!
Brilliant! Wonderfully succinct, giving us volumes. I still feel the heat. I particularly liked the line, it hauled in dead air like cloth from a bolt
Thanks, Eric! I appreciate your kind words.