IN THE ATTIC
Reality hits. Our New Hampshire home of 44 years now belongs to strangers. Other lives will be lived within these familiar walls. Slowly, over the weeks, we dug out from under years of accumulation; we sorted, boxed, discarded, sold, donated, gifted. Hard, liberating work. Friends helped in so many ways. Then we said those goodbyes that feel so final at this stage of life.
I climb into the attic for one final check. The cold winter air hits me as I boost myself up and look around; a carpet remnant, an old picture frame, a couple of empty bins. But wait! Not quite empty. In one of those bins lies a shiny silver Christmas bulb. I feel sad as I watch it roll helplessly around. The poor thing never made it onto our tree this year.
Then without warning, I’m pierced by a fragment of poetry that I heard somewhere long ago. “Bits and bright pieces of things we once knew”. And I wonder. How did it all race by at breakneck speed? The snowy Christmas mornings, the bouncing babies, the beach trips, autumn walks, family gatherings. I can’t go back again to those memories, for we have all changed. The mystery of Time’s abnormality frustrates me once more.
Down the stairs I go, to view empty rooms for one last time. Stark and bare, they stare back at me, void of life, unresponding. And I know that what matters to me is no longer here. I’m free to head for Virginia, taking the memories with me, nourishing the relationships that were built here. These are the things that remain.