I went home last weekend to pack up the rest of my belongings, sell some various whatnots, say goodbye to my family home, say goodbye to my family, kiss the dogs, pet the cats, and fall down a flight of stairs. My family has lived in this excessively tall, mid-19th century brownstone for ten whole years, and not a one of us took advantage of the beautiful spiral staircase at the center of the house. It's like owning a pool table and never once playing a game - a mistake I made, in fact, every day between 1984 and 1986. I've learned my lesson, so I took this last opportunity to experience the staircase fully.

And experience it I did, each delighful corner of it, from landing to landing. I stepped out of my bedroom, lost my footing and tumbled down the stairs, rolling over my shoulder, ending splayed awkwardly two steps from the bottom. As I fell, I placidly considered my deep desire not to make my final exit this way; I was hoping for something courageous, or at least geriatric. A pratfall down the stairs is so undignified.

But I did not break my neck. Miraculously, I didn't break anything at all, and within ten minutes I was cleaned up and taking my grandmother to the doctor as planned, driving gingerly with a swollen ankle. I'm a real trouper. Three days later, this was my progress:

So goodbye, beautiful house. Goodbye, skin on my knees. May I see you both someday, a great many years from now, in heaven.