32 Steps

There are 32 steps to your front porch. A dilapidated, run-down, piece of shit porch that I crossed every day to get to your door. Amazingly, the front door looked pristine. Then again, anything would compared to that god-awful porch. I think your dad kept it that way on purpose to make the rest of the house look better by comparison. "Hey, this porch looks like shit, but the house is beautiful."
I've turned that doorknob so many times the creak is burned into my brain. Actually, it sounded more like a creeeeeeeak, longer than your average creak. Yet, somehow, the door opened silently as if someone oiled the hinges every day. Maybe you did. You always were meticulous about that sort of thing. I can picture you with an oil can, standing on a chair so you can reach the top hinge, squiring just enough oil so the door doesn't make a sound when it's opened.
Today, I won't be walking the 32 steps to that hideous front porch, I won't be turning that creeeeeeaky doorknob, and I won't be hearing the silence as I push the door open. Oh, wait a minute, you can't hear silence. You only reminded me of that approximately a million times. "Every time I open that door all I hear is silence." "You can't hear silence, silly," you'd say. "If you could hear it, it wouldn't be silent."
As I remember you telling me not to be ridiculous, I brush some dirt off the stone and find a long blond hair almost floating on the granite surface. It's not yours obviously. You lost your hair months ago. Sadly, it takes pictures nowadays to remind me what you looked like with hair. It was blond, definitely, and long, too. Usually straight, and kind of boring, to be honest. No offense.
Holding the hair between my fingertips I twirl it around and realize it could belong to anyone - your mom, sister, a friend. There were a lot of blonds in your family. I remember your mom once coming home with dark hair, "you know, like that Kardashian girl." Thankfully that phase didn't last. You never changed, though, until you had no choice.
Standing in the, I don't know what you call it, a wig store I guess, you tried on so many different ones. No matter the color, style or length, you never looked like you. Eventually, you quit trying. You were bald. You had a nicely shaped head, so it worked for you. You asked me if I had a problem being with a bald woman; I said no way. "Hair is overrated."
You were born in a month with 31 days and you have 31 letters in your full name. That's how I remember the 32 steps. Leslie-Anne Christina Beckenbrauer. What a fucking mouthful. Born October 25, 1982, your mom said you came out halfway, then stopped. Which is funny, because you never did anything halfway. You had blue eyes and more hair than the last time I saw you. Unfortunately, for all the things you mastered, growing wasn't one of them. You peaked at 5'1 with boobs only slightly larger than mine. That boob job you claimed to want never happened, thank God. No one likes fake boobs.
Since this wasn't a crime scene, I let the hair fall from my fingers. The wind picked it up and carried it away. I didn't even watch it leave.
Now that I think about it, I didn't watch a lot of things. I mostly watched you. I even watched you sleep. Is that creepy? I figured if Edward could watch Bella sleep, why can't I watch you? Besides, in my defense you slept a lot. I watched your little chest rise and fall. Actually, putting it that way does make it sound creepy. Let me rephrase: I watched your grown up, legal chest rise and fall. Sometimes I'd get close enough to feel you breathe. I'd open my mouth so you'd breathe into me. I'd breathe myself into you.
All that life I breathed into you did no good. But I took some of yours and I'm keeping it. If that's selfish, sue me. You can't have it back. You don't need it where you are, anyway.
There are 32 steps to your front porch. I'll never forget that.