She ascends the stepladder, tiptoes
the top shelf to reach the picture rail.
It’s secure. She clicked the hinge lock.
Found the flat surface for each foot.
She does as she does
a hundred times before.
Yet, I still find myself below,
knees with a slight bend,
arms in front, tense, to ready
a chance she might lose her balance.
After all, for the number of times
she’s caught me, it’s the least I can do.