Gentle Hands VIII

I'll tell it again, but it's really about "curls on birthdays and being born to smile or bust." I slowly, painfully, climbed (or maybe it was descended) the creaking worn wooden stairs. (Yes it was climbed, "always go with your first impulse" because I was carrying a pail of water to flush the toilet) when I saw the scratch on the browned wallpaper from the time her neighbor carried that chair up for me and apologized up and down for the scratch. Why can't I remember his name? Or even his face? Then I felt it. The pain wasn't as bad as the tears, the tears stung. I dropped the bucket (yes, it was empty, so I must have been going down the stairs, but it doesn't matter anyway) and it spat the few drops left as it made the loudest horrible banging as she sobbed silently.