Glass
Broken glass lay scattered on the dirty kitchen floor, untouched. I circled it on tiptoe every day as I tried to reach the toaster on the counter, making myself something to eat before I left to trudge through the snow to the bus stop. Stretching over the counter, I reached for the bread, keeping my feet safely away from the sprinkling of glass. I perfected this stretching move over the weeks that the broken glass stayed there. Living the way we did required many specific stretches and maneuvers to move safely throughout the house. There was no such thing as simply walking a straight line between Point A and Point B in our house. Even in the short distance between the couch and the piano, a barely-navigable maze of stuff teetered ominously. The "turn and squeeze" move got you through the piles of junk between the living room and the dining room (although we never ate in there, the dining table also being covered in junk). A combination of climbing and crawling was necessary t...