I can just see the epitaph on my gravestone now. “In her 75th year of life, Rose conquered the attic.” It’s possible that a precipitous tumble down these creaky stairs might lead to my demise, but who cares? The kids aren’t around to stop me. I can’t possibly leave this mess for anyone else. And if I fall hard enough, it might provide an easy solution to the problem.
I have made a feeble start, but every decision is fraught with pain. How can I get rid of that baby swing (we never used it) that might strangle a toddler? What shall I do with this adorable doll bed? When will I ever actually sit down and look through this box of greeting cards, this stash of things marked “keepers”? How many tears will I shed? How can I throw out this Styrofoam airplane with its broken wing? But then I realize that it is not the plane I want to keep. It’s the young boy who intended to fix it, and he is moving on to bigger things, rightly so.
On it goes. Ice skates in all sizes, sleds, old photos. Who will ever look at them? Camping equipment – those days are over. I’m spoiled by hotels and inns now. Boxes of Christmas decorations, way too many of them. Reel to reel tapes (seriously) and old newspapers someone valued, probably soaked with mouse urine. An old fashioned toaster with two slots, a couple of TV’s. Why did we keep them?
Who will buy? No one. Off to Goodwill and the dump. Memories, pieces of my life gone by. Tears spring up. Where did that beautiful baby go, the one that giggled at me from that high chair? What about that little blonde blue eyed beauty, who skimmed across the frozen pond so gracefully in the winter twilight on those skates?
Still, one thing remains. The love that filled this house all of these years. It lives in my heart. Some things just will never fit in any garbage can.
