Regression

By Hana

My little sister wouldn’t put her heels on the ground anymore, just padded around with night-feet. Going unnoticed until she was right behind you, breathing soft, slow. My older sister told me so on the phone. There’re worse habits than tiptoeing, I argued.

It’s called regression, and it’s not a good thing, was the rejoinder, her voice broken up by a procession of heavy footsteps on wooden stairs.

I guess my little sister was just trying to peer over something, catch a glimpse of something she left on some imaginary shelf when she was a child. Something invisible to the flat-footed.