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 Crewe, hidden away in my cold garret waiting for The Magic to come. It was sanctuary. A place where there were no arguments, no raised voices, and I could just be me, without being criticised or dismissed. I could let my mind wander, skipping from one thought to the next, much like Little Red Riding Hood through the forest. It was a place where I felt safe. I became a princess, an orphan, I rode a horse, I solved mysteries. I lived in different times, places. Those hours I spent in the attic were some of the happiest of my childhood.

 I haven't lived in that house for a very long time. The attic was emptied, renovated, and turned into a living space. But the little girl inside of me longs to escape to far away places, even for just an hour. To read, then become, my own story.