Nostalgic Waltz: Attic

          I flick the light switch as I round the corner and head up the stairs, fluorescent lights lighting my way to the room up ahead. The shag carpet instills a familiar comfort within me, but I remember to watch where I step. No matter how often they vacuumed up here, there was almost always a sneaky small something that would make itself at home in the room's inch-high jungle. Despite this, the white walls were always complemented by the room's white carpet. I almost stumble down the three steps that bring you down to the floor and wonder how I always forget that they exist. Looking away from the stairs, I noted that the room's shape reminded me of a slightly flattened "L" with small squares cut out of its corners.
          My eyes wander to the wooden rack hanging to the front right corner just as I enter the room, laden with spools upon spools of brilliantly colorful yarn. It reminds me of the old, solid metal sewing table to my left - a relic of the past to be certain, but one I do not blame the lady of the house for keeping. I never figured out if it still worked, and with all the papers and sewing tools littering its surface, I doubt I ever will. In the opposite corner, a steel table bears the weight of a more modern sewing machine, along with a set of measuring tapes and a mat covered in units of measurement. I take a moment to appreciate the work it has done in mending my garments throughout the years. Behind it sat a plastic folding table, and it was almost surprising to see that a puzzle hadn't been laid out on it, waiting to be assembled. Instead, it is covered with an assortment of papers and paper holders.
          As I pass both tables, I kick the inconveniently placed yoga ball out of my way, and it bounces off the desk on the right wall. It was here that the man of the house painstakingly toiled to assemble the history of my ancestors on his thick, square computer. I remembered the days when I was far younger and that desk sat on the left wall instead. I do not know what the house owners themselves used it for, but I know I enjoyed playing cheap computer games from Half-Price Bookstore CDs long ago. I walk over to the desk on the right wall and reminisce as I gaze upon its contents. A plastic skull sits on the far-left corner of the desk facing inwards - one of the many things in that house of which I never learned the origin. Even more papers littered the desks in the left corner, and I quickly looked to the other side of the desk, uninterested in the pile of leaflets and their contents. On the far-right corner of the desk, the framed picture of a small, fluffy, and very loving white dog sat and stared back at me with hollow eyes. I did not know her as well as the man of the house did, so I turn away, trying to ignore the memories of the time I almost killed her with chocolate ice cream.
          Having reminded myself that I would never be a good pet owner, I walked over to the other wall to look at a small door. It was a very small door - barely taller than the tables to its side - and I would have to crouch to get inside it and reach its contents in the cramped space. I did not want to do that, but it did remind me of the days when I and my brother once called it our secret hideout. I turned to look at the far-left corner of the room, seeing the old yet sturdy chair and tv set sitting where they always did. Large pillows with houses on them sit behind an end table to the side, and memories of morning hours spent sitting on those pillows watching PBS Saturday cartoons filled my mind.
          To the right of the television set, a tall wooden bookcase stood despite the clear wear caused by years of use. Collections of Sunday paper comics line the top shelf, and toys from laser blasters to wooden cars fill what's left. Next to the bookcase, a shelf held puzzles of all shapes, colors, and sizes. My eyes wandered to the circular puzzle box, being reminded of one of the few times the family gave up on solving it due to its strangely shaped pieces. On the floor right by the shelf, an old wooden racetrack stood almost up to my knees in height. Stooping down to get a better look at it, I can't help but be reminded of the mindless hours of fun I had watching simple rectangular vehicles flip and fall as they traversed the treacherous racetrack. Getting back up onto my feet, I almost walk into the treadmill that housed itself in the room's far-right corner. I wasn't sure why the lady of the house kept this until I remembered that the man of the house could no longer join her on the long, steep walks she took through the neighborhood. To the side of that treadmill, an exercise bike sat gathering dust, waiting for the day its owners would sell it to a more frequent user so it could serve its purpose. I turn around and walk back towards the stairs, happy to take a short trip down memory lane in my grandparents' attic.