Endnote

Actually, it was hardly manageable. 

When the delivery truck arrived, the driver—knowing, cheerful—used his hydraulic lift and a dolly to steer it towards the front porch. There, the compact package pitched forward like a tall cedar and he shoved it—firmly, forcefully—up two shallow steps. Then he left. 

We pushed it together from the porch door, through the kitchen on its side and steered it to the bottom of the staircase. We were damp from effort and the unexpected resistance but still enthused because finally, it was happening; finally, we’d have something we wanted and worked for and desperately needed. Finally we’d have relief from everything we’d put up with and more than relief, we would possess something of real value. But we couldn’t get it up the stairs. 

The weight was surprising. I pulled. He pushed. It demanded further accommodation. We removed the railing from the staircase. We both got under it. We put on our shoes. We each used a shoulder against its rolled end and entire mass and climbed one tread at a time. We pressed our arms against the walls like braces. We rested, stuck in the shaft of upward motion, unable to control it or get out of the way if we lost our grip. It took so much time. There was investment in every step. 

We tipped it—finally—up like a lever onto the respite of the top floor. This was where we intended it to be. We slit its bindings carefully and stepped back as it unfurled in space, taking over the area we had dreamed of it filling. Silently, it expanded for two days and two nights. We watched together from our inferior position on the floor, coveting fulfilment but wary of its capacity to crush and bruise.