Forty-Four Stairs

Grandma lives on the third floor. Forty-four stairs. I count them every Saturday.

I know all of them. Stair number nine makes a big noise. Stair number twenty is a little broken. Stair number forty-four is the last one, and after it there is Grandma’s blue door.

On Friday the telephone rings. It’s Grandma.

“I have a new apartment,” she says. “It’s downstairs, next to the front door. Come and see it.”

On Saturday we travel to Grandma’s on the bus. I run into the building and I count. One, two, three, four, five. Five stairs, and then a green door.

“Where are my stairs?” I say.

Grandma laughs. “My legs are old,” she says. “Five is better.”

Her chair is by the window. Her flowers are on the table.

Now Grandma has five stairs. I count them very slowly.