My father walks softly,
As if he must tread carefully,
Always carefully,
Lest he steps too hard
And crushes the world under his feet.
The stride of someone who knows
To tread lightly,
Because there are others below him.

My brother walks erratically,
Sometimes at a creeping and slow run,
Other times at an unnecessarily fast crawl,
And sometimes with steps like a small giant,
Merely because he can.
As if he knows that life is too short
To walk the same way twice.

My mother walks gracefully
Like a doe through the woods.
Yet at the same time, she marches,
A proud, elegant march,
As if to say,
I have never been to France,
But I dance as beautifully as any French ballerina.

I walk silently,
Never making a sound,
Just because I know that the sounds
Of feet against floor are unnecessary,
And so, must be avoided.
But every now and then,
I take the stairs slowly,
Letting them groan under my weight.
Just to remind myself, that sometimes,
It’s not so bad to be unnecessary.