The Staircase

I dreamt I was painting a staircase that went nowhere. It wasn’t tall. Only five or six steps at most. It wasn’t ornate in any way. It was white, with a single white handrail. Red velvet drapes framed it on both sides, and it lead up to a blank white wall. This painting took years off my life, but I never felt it was complete. It was just a staircase. Just a staircase.

In my old age I brought the painting out to show my granddaughter. She was seven years old and unlike the rest of the family, she loved hearing me talk. I sat down on the couch held the painting, covered in an old sheet, upright in front of her. I told her how our best inspirations come in our dreams, when we aren’t trying very hard, and that this painting came to me in a dream when I was 24 years old.

“How old are you now, grandpa?” she asked.

“Old enough to have forgotten the answer to that question.”

I drew the sheet off the painting. My granddaughter looked befuddled for a moment and began tilting her head. I looked at her and thought for a moment. Instinctively I turned the painting right-side-up.

“Where do the stairs go, grandpa?”

“I’m not quite sure.” I said honestly. “Where do you think they go?”

She squinted and scrunched her nose.

“They lead to a very pretty lady.” she said with a nod.

I turned the painting towards me to see, and she was right. At the top of that short, unassuming staircase stood a beautiful woman.

“We finished it, grandpa!” she said with a smile.

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