The bare watt overhead bulb flashes on. Jagged shadows scurry across barren rafters lining the stark ceiling. A metal-on-wood grating sound accompanies the dissonant screeching of rusty springs as the folding stairs are pulled down. Wooden steps creak under the weight of heavy feet. Someone is coming up to the attic, the first time in over two years.
Would you look at all this clutter, Jim. Why didn't she just throw it away instead of lugging it up here for us to haul back down again? Never could throw anything away. Thought she might need it someday. Dad always said he didn't want to outlive her and have to clean out the attic. The last time I heard them they were the vibrant voices of youth leaving for college and the world beyond. They slowly scuffle through the disarray--old lamps with dented paper shades, a wire magazine holder, cracked crochet mallets falling from their wobbly wooden stand, an old red paint-chipped tricycle, an equally scarred blue inch boy's bicycle, a conglomeration of sagging cardboard boxes filled with tattered toys, faded baby clothes, frayed childrenfs books, tired old dolls, and tangled Christmas decorations.
A life-time accumulation of family relics. The shuffling approaches. I feel the touch of a hand, less soft than the last time. She even kept the old waffle iron. I figured it had given up the ghost and been tossed years ago.
Remember the Sunday morning ritual--waffles, sausage and fried eggs? Wonder if it still works? Take it down and see. We can't get into cleaning this out until tomorrow anyway. So we leave the attic. Being careful not to drop me, Betsy backs down the stairs to the garage.
Into the kitchen. Haven't been here for 15 years or so. Quite a few changes. A new tile floor. Different curtains on the windows. New pictures and potted plant holders on the walls, fluorescent light fixtures instead of the old white incandescent globes, a new stove and refrigerator, and she finally got a dish washer!
