It Wasn't Just an Attic
Some houses have attics, some don't. A place for dust, mice, spiders, Christmas decorations. A place to keep all the things people don't know what else to do with, or things requiring decisions that people aren't ready to make. It's a place for the "some days" stuff of life. For me, the attic was so much more. It was a passage to another world, very Narnia-esque. There were books to read, old clothes to try on, things that came from a different generation. There was an antique baby carriage, vinyl records, boxes of cards from people I didn't know, photo albums, suitcases, and all manner of things. The attic, to me, told the story of my family. It seemed like if I looked, I could find my entire family history in there, and figure out just who I was supposed to be. I would sit in the summer, dripping with sweat, poring over books whose titles I can't remember, reading about everything and anything. I would sit in the cold, imagining myself to be Sara