Thirty-Two Steps

My mother lived in the same South Philly rowhouse for almost fifty years.

Thirty-two steps from the sidewalk to her kitchen table. I counted them as a kid because I always knew there would be something waiting there — soup, envelopes of coupons, somebody’s birthday card, or just her asking why I looked so thin.

She worked at a bakery near Passyunk for years and came home smelling like flour and sugar. She raised three kids, took care of my grandfather, and somehow knew every neighbor’s business without ever seeming nosy.

This piece of Pennsylvania is for her kitchen table, because half our family was held together there.