The Top Rung

A wooden clothes maiden stood unfolded beside the warm kitchen radiator, draped in heavy linen. It looked like an obstacle course worth testing. Measuring the distance from the bench, I leaped squarely onto the middle rung, weaving between the hanging dishcloths. The frame gave a dry, splinterless creak beneath my pads, rocking once before settling against the skirting board. Step by step, I tightroped along the slender topmost bar until I reached the middle. From this swaying summit, the whole sunlit kitchen unfolded beneath me.