Concrete steps rise from pebbly cracked sidewalks, but go, absurdly, nowhere. Into the boards of a fence, or the sunless dirt beneath a low tree limb. An empty lot. A telephone pole. Eighty years ago, a raging summer fire leveled everything for miles, and when the town returned, it shifted—just a little—and left these oddities. Growing up, I barely noticed. They were part of the salty, wind-bent landscape, pointless. Who cared?
But time passes. Smoke clears. Now I see: they’re reminders, ways back. Someone lived here. And here. And here. The steps don’t go nowhere. They go home.
Photo Credit: moominsean