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BENSONHURT:

BLACK AND THEN BLUE

by Tracy Price-Thompson

The steel-colored stairs looked steep and insurmountable from my vantage point. The flat gray paint gave them an institutional look that was popular during that era. Gazing up at the crowd at the top, I bravely began my journey.

Facing the formidable flight of stairs, I was flanked on either side by my parents. Each of them clasped one of my hands within the folds of their own: strong and sure. This single flight of stairs was the bridge to my future. Like trampolines, my parents provided the catapulting momentum that my six-year-old frame required to propel itself upward. Since I was small for my age, my knees nearly met my chin with each lunge.

I glanced into the stoic face of my father and noticed how straight his back was, how high he held his head. Subconciously, I adjusted my posture and bearing to match his. Turning to my mother, I smiled brightly, my six-year-old teeth all jumbled up in a mouth too small to contain them. My mother smiled back.

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