Standing on a Stool
A Strange Thing Happening in a Tense Conversation— The Footing Disappears
I wonder if this is what it’s like to be in a duel.
We stood across from each other in the basement, each front-facing. Each trying to be a little taller. Eyes narrowed, scanning for vulnerable places.
The place I stood was named: Mom.
Firm. Leveraged. A point to make. The push of responsibility at my back.
The words I spoke came from there.
Then, a small internal shift. I don’t know why.
First, a split second of fear — like stepping onto a lower-than-expected stair.
Instead of falling, vision widened. The whole scene came into focus.
I stopped telling and began taking her in. Listening. Waiting. Only then responding.
The weapon loosened in my hand. Words stopped trying to prove.
Nothing resolved.
Walking upstairs, I realized something more valuable had happened.
I hadn’t missed her.
—
This time, the kitchen.
A hurt unnamed. The impulse to place it squarely on his shoulders.
Different room. Same duel-stance. Another name: Wife.
Words forming to secure my position.
Then again — a small shift. Fear. Widening.
Listening took the lead. Speech followed when it was my turn.
No score kept. No verdict delivered.
Just two people saying what was true.
Closer somehow — not because we agreed.
—
Sometimes I recognize when a position is being used like a stool.
Mom. Wife. The one who knows. The one who is aggrieved.
There’s a feeling to it — effort. The scramble for footing.
Without height, the world insists, we lose control.
But when footing is allowed to give way, something curious happens.
A split second of fear — as if stepping somewhere unfamiliar.
Then dilation. The eyes adjust.
Ah. Familiar ground.
What’s foreign is entering it without force.
Attention widens. Listening sharpens. Speech aligns. Distance begins to close.
No one monopolizing the exchange. Yet nothing unraveling.
I wonder how much of what I once called advantage
was only the precarious footing of a stool —
when life may have arranged itself all along.
—
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