There were 17 steps between the sewing machine and the wardrobe in the room my grandmother did her sewing in. I counted them so that if, in walking towards the wardrobe, I would need to turn and run it would be an asset to know the distance I would have to cover. The fear I felt for that wardrobe was palpable, as if the Devil himself had found a way to make his body the shape of a squat, brown box with doors like hands waiting to grab me.
So during the times when I would attempt to cross to the wardrobe I would look away from it and towards the other parts of the room, hoping to see some sort of Christ waiting to protect me in the shape of a shoebox or basket. And it was during those forms of prayer that I discovered the power of things. How they could strengthen my steps. How I could look at them with love or hatred and their response would be the same. I began to invest in things and they in me. We knew what the other needed.