Forty-Seven

Forty-seven.

That's what came out when she asked

how many stairs, and the number

was already there—not thought,

but something my legs had learned

without consulting me.

I've climbed these stairs five days a week

for three years. My feet know

the rhythm. My hands know

the specific place on the rail

where the metal's worn smooth,

where everyone's grip has marked it.

The landing where the light changes.

Step twenty-three or twenty-four.

The angle where the window hits.

I don't remember deciding to count.

I don't remember the first day

my body started keeping score.

But now the stairs feel like

a confession: I was here.

I was paying attention

even when I wasn't trying.

Even when I was looking

at my phone, thinking about

other things, going through the motion

of moving up.

My body was keeping records.

Forty-seven.

The next time I climb,

I'll count. I won't be able to help it.