Visiting Grandma's house

A couple of nights ago, I walked, alone, through my grandparents' house up on the hill. (The house itself is no longer there. It burned down some fifteen years ago when grandma had already sold it and moved, and the rebuilt house is a different one.)
I could smell the wood paneling and the linoleum floor. The damp in the cramped, pale yellow, too old bathroom. The slightly dusty smell of paper and wood and chalk in grandpa's upstairs study. I curled up in that stuffed chair at his desk that is a little too hard and angular to be really comfortable to sit in for very long, but still nice and roomy.

The stairs creaked just like they always have. I could feel the smooth wood of the staircase railing and the little damaged notch at the end, barely visible but definitely noticeable when you grab the rail to swing around the last tiny turn of the stairs in a large jump.
Which, of course, no sensible person would descend the stairs without doing.

(but the windows, there's something wrong with them and I can't put my finger on what)

The christmas tree was shining in the dark living room like a glittering pyramid of lights and tinsel. Casting shadows of angels on the wall.
The russian easter hens in the sun on the window sill in the dining room.

I sat for a long time on the staircase, looking at the tree.
Thinking. Not thinking.