A man jogged lightly down the alleyway behind my house. Not urgently but with purpose. Like he needed to feed his meter or go home and pull something out of an oven. He didn’t come up the stairs, didn’t head my way. He just walked the trashcan line. But seeing him go made me wish he’d come up here. Because there’s something about being a man in a sweatshirt headed up a staircase that can’t be explained. It’s like the only right thing. Unfussy. A dazzlement. A return to resplendence. That thing you only felt once––one time––in the lobby of a snow college, which offered courses on ashtray building and math and God. Things you felt and still feel like you might be good at. Along with walking. Fast walking. Stair climbing that turns into jumping. A teenager who needs lessons. A wife who would like her feet touched in a house with stairs that you still find very much perfect.


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Sam Berman lives in Boise, Idaho. His work has been featured in X-R-A-Y, Forever Magazine and Maudlin House.