Katharine Robbins

Change Has Come

Katharine L. Robbins

Professor Frances Charteris

Writing for the Visual Arts

Personal Narrative

January 26, 2014

The Green Staircase

            I sat near the base of the back staircase, my spot right before the secure cover of the wall ends, the place I always sat waiting. I can’t remember now why I was down there.  Its been a long time since I stepped foot in that house. I must have heard talking or happened to walk down into the middle of the conversation. And although the door to the kitchen was cracked open, I knew with my cover they could not see me sitting there.

            I could feel things hadn’t been quite “normal” for a while. But what does “normal” even mean. It’s different for me and it’s different for everyone. I just didn’t anticipate overhearing what I did. I don’t remember being shocked. Was I even sad? Or did I really know this was unavoidable? The years since may have washed it into numbness. It has been five years, a fourth of my life ago. That feels like a long time to me.

            Maybe I was happy to look forward to a more peaceful time; A period free of waiting. Without having to look forward to something, or someone, that I know won’t follow through. I wanted everyone to just be alright; That’s the least I could ask, just being alright. How could I have been so calm? I was young, this kind of change was new. Maybe I didn’t believe that it was happening. Or maybe I was waiting. Waiting for someone to tell me. Waiting for the moment for it to become real.

            Should I have walked into the kitchen and told them what I had heard? Or wait until someone “officially” told me? It didn’t matter at that point. I knew… and nothing could change that. So, I turned around and walked back up the stairs and straight into my room. Who knows what I did for the rest of that night. Nothing special. Everything had to be alright on the outside, so it was by the morning.

            No one ever told me. Not that I remember. Maybe she did; It didn’t matter. I might have nodded in response, more agreement. I knew. She must’ve sensed that I had an idea of what was going on. I just needed to give her a sign, this is what I want too. It’s fine. Even for the best. Maybe I was expected to ask what was going on, or was it understood that I knew. I paid attention to things, even if I was the quiet one. This would be hard to slip by me.

            I guess that’s been a theme in my life. It would be easier if everyone could be upfront, or at least honest. Either way, I didn’t quite feel this way about what happened in my old house. She says that house is cursed, everyday I believe a little bit more in it. We were in a venomous environment and had to get out. We did, ultimately. We didn’t move far, but it was new and that’s what was needed. The next place was better, but I still carry bad memories.

            This instance at my old house is one of those times I would love to put in the past. But recently the situation has been swapped on me. I am the one that was knowingly shared a secret, nearly the very same secret, and I am now expected to keep it. I thought this was over. But it is beginning to be a cycle in my life- and my biggest fear is that it will never be broken. I will live in a world of secrets constantly splintering at my consciousness.