Dear Wigleaf,

It's 3 am, and I'm on the staircase wrestling a commercial-sized ladder. I tug with all my body weight until I drag it to the living room. With every ounce of force, I stand it upright.

I climb to the tippy top, in house slippers that—miraculously—haven't slipped. I reach my hand high and stretch. Still too short.

Then I see the vintage sword on top of the armor we hid when the kids were small. I snag the sword and climb the ladder again. The blade wobbles at my side.

It takes four whacks, but I decapitate the chirping, needs-a-battery smoke alarm. It drops like a dead bird.

I fall asleep with the sword beside me. Victorious.

Rest in Peace,

Juliebird