A long time ago, I used to take the stairs two at a time. Bounding up in a flash, I would ascend easily using my strong legs; they were not long legs, so I had to overextend my stride to reach each pair of consecutive steps. In the event that another person should happen also to be present, climbing up that same set of stairs which I concurrently needed to mount in order to get to wherever it was I was going at that moment: home, school, work, shopping, or elsewhere; and should I then perceive a wide enough opening on the stairs within which I might bypass my fellow stair-goer—common etiquette in taking the stairs being of course that one ought to keep to one side at all times, and ideally to the right side if at all possible, so that other people may thereby pass up or down to the left beside you—I would quickly skirt to get ahead of the other stair-climber and brush closely past this total stranger so that I could circumvent them to the summit all the sooner, for stairs were invariably a minor obstacle to be overcome promptly and efficiently; whereupon, once finally elevated diagonally onto the next floor, one could at last resume a regular horizontal path. Everyone went about this really rather remarkably complex synchronized motor movement without thinking of it as such, simply performing by muscle memory a series of perfectly executed fluid locomotions, lifting off and landing in a limited number of repetitions, perhaps a dozen or a half dozen or so, depending on the height of the elevation, steepness of the incline and depth between steps. Personally, I’ve never understood those who decide to walk up the dead center of the stairs, a zone of climbing whereat not only do they potentially block the way for anyone else who might be attempting to take that same set of stairs at that same exact moment; but moreover, from a safety standpoint, this also puts one in the position most distant from reaching the railing, which could be quite dangerous should one happen to lose a footing and slip on something stuck there, for the stairs here were usually dirty.
Once, I was climbing the stairs alongside a friend, and they said to me afterward, smiling over at me somewhat impishly, “You always take the stairs two at a time. It’s cute.” I didn’t know quite how to respond to that and said nothing at the time, but at some point thereafter I eventually stopped taking the stairs two at a time. I don’t know exactly when the change occurred, but in any case, I consistently now take upon the action of climbing a set of stairs strictly one step at a time. Slowly, one after another, I lift each foot to the next rung in the sequence and put it down flat before lifting it up again to yet another step, not counting consciously, yet feeling the weight of each one in my knees, which have grown somewhat weaker over the years; whereas before, another lifetime ago it now seems to me—a decade slid by like nothing happened, and nothing really did—I could spring into the air off the balls of my feet, even in the flat vulcanized rubber canvas-upper skate shoes that contained no cushioning material in the outsole, which I used to wear daily; and with great agility and speed, in a sleek cycle of almost cervid-like prancing jolts, I would dart through the city like a wild animal dashing across the uneven terrain of a forest floor, leaping over logs and brush in the way, as if in flight from some perceived predatory threat. Back then, I took the stairs two at a time without ever taking notice of it as any sort of behavior that was out of the ordinary or worth another’s remarking on to bring to my attention, and I never imagined that it would one day cease; that is, until someone did point it out to me, making me self-conscious of it, and it would not be long after that interaction when the habit did finally come to an end, though that was not a conscious decision either; it just so happened that I stopped, my body slowed down.
My brother, meanwhile, still takes the stairs two at a time, sometimes even three or four at a time, much in the same manner that I used to, only it seems to me he moves much faster than I ever could, despite the fact that he is already a fair bit older now than I was by the time I had already permanently stopped taking the stairs two at a time. Now, when we climb the stairs together—a seldom occurrence, as we live separate lives in separate cities—he will ascend to the top of the stairs several seconds before me, then turn back around to look down at me taking the stairs unhurriedly, and he will wait there a split, stalling for me to catch up; I don’t like that look he gives me, almost like he’s staring into my grave. My parents, on the other hand, take the stairs one at a time like I now do, and for as far back as I can remember they always have, though it seems to me with a swiftness far more confident than my own, no matter that as my parents they are of course well over twice my age—many thousands of stairs they must have climbed in six decades of life. I have to wonder when my brother will eventually learn to take the stairs one at a time like we do. I also wonder if at some point I might try again at taking the stairs two at a time; perhaps I will find a second wind and a surge of energy will possess me to launch doubly upward once more.
I like this a lot, well-written & lacks hiccups. Was this an attempt to write like Kafka?