Dusty Attics and Clouded Minds

Dusty Attics and Clouded Minds

            Light entered the dank and stuffy room as the creaking of the ancient door pierced the silence. The heavy, swelled wood opened further and held fast. I gave another small push and the rusty hinges gave way with a slight screech. I stepped in slowly, carefully testing my footing on the aged planks of the attic floor. Slowly I examined my surroundings. Dust hovered in the small sliver of light that shown from the high, circular window. In the dim light, I saw the large variety of objects that littered the floor: an old sofa covered with a dull blanket of dust, numerous towers of small boxes that were probably filled with my father's books, and countless piles of random junk. The room hadn't changed much. It was exactly the same as when I saw it last, many years ago.

         I suddenly remembered the reason I had come to this place, to find an old dresser that my wife had thought would complement the carpet in the living room. I could still hear her words echoing in my ears, "Jim, I think you should get everything of value out of that house before you sell it." She was right, I should visit my childhood home one last time before I sold it away. I dreaded every moment of it. It seemed like I was breathing in memories every second I drew breath: memories of my parents' deaths...memories of the hard woman who cared for me the remainder of my childhood, memories I had strove to forget.

         I easily found the dresser in the mess of the attic. It was right where I  last saw it. I lifted it slowly and I felt my hands brush a smooth, square object. I gripped the object and pulled it out from underneath the dresser. What was this? I brushed the thick layer of dust from the top. In the dim light, I could just barely read the thin print written on the top of the cigar box: "Top Secret! Keep Out!" It was my treasure box from when I was little.

                Carefully I opened the cardboard box. Inside the box was a mess of small objects and coins. I slowly picked up a small tube-like item. It was my spyglass. I remembered the happy days when I would hunt for treasure as a ferocious pirate, spyglass hanging from my neck. I gripped a piece of stiff paper on the bottom of the box. Numerous small objects slid off as I pulled it from its confinement. I slowly brushed the dust from the ancient photograph. Tears slid down my cheeks as I saw my father and mother in the center of the picture, smiling as they held me in their arms.

                Suddenly, I was glad that I had come back to my childhood home. It had given me an unforgettable treasure: a happy memory.