As a boy, our family lived in a two-bedroom house with five people. Because I was the only boy, the attic became my bedroom. It was the perfect place for me: large, with an octagonal window I could look out of at the world below. I liked that adults had to duck their heads, since the rafters were only a few feet higher than me, so they usually just called my name from downstairs to come down for a meal or do chores.
To me, my room became a playground, with plenty of room to ride my pedal car, set up battlefields for games of war, and keep my collections of comic books, jars full of marbles, and kites hanging from the rafters. There was only one light, the one in the stairwell that barely lit my room, so Dad helped me hang Christmas lights throughout the space, which eventually helped my fear of shadow people disappear.
On the far side, things were stored: boxes labeled Grandma and Grandpa, old dishes, an old hat rack, and two sleds that would be retrieved when the snow arrived. An old rocking chair sat there, used to rock several babies over time, and a birdcage I was told belonged to my great-grandma, who loved birds that sang the most beautiful songs. As the years passed and I grew taller, I had to crouch around my room, but it was a small price to pay for my sanctuary away from the chaos of two sisters who shared a room downstairs.
I was fifteen when my folks sold the little house and moved into a large four-bedroom across town. My room was nothing like my attic room; it lacked character, but with some imagination, I turned it into a quiet space I called my own. I had an aquarium with different kinds of fish and that old bird cage where my lovebirds sang to me. I had a shelf filled with books I loved, like Moby-Dick, Adventures of Tom Sawyer, Swiss Family Robinson, and many more. And my pride and joy: a collection of comic books dating back years, some in plastic to preserve their pristine condition. Little did I realize many of them would be worth hundreds of dollars and more. Decades passed, and I did a hitch in the army, going home on leave a couple of times a year and thanking my baby sister for feeding my fish and lovebirds, who always sang loudly whenever I came home. More time passed, and I married my high school sweetheart. We spent many days looking for our first house, mostly in my old neighborhood, when we came upon my old house for sale. There was an open house sign, so we went inside. A realtor greeted us and told us to look around, but I headed straight for the attic, where my childhood bedroom was. I had to crouch like Dad, and although it was smaller than I remembered, it was everything I remembered.
We bought that house, started our family, and eventually had to put our son in my old attic room. I would be on bended knees as we played with my old toy soldiers and read my favorite books on a shelf handed down to my son to read and enjoy as I did a long time ago. I strung colored lights to brighten his space, promising no shadow men would lurk in the darkness or peer through the octagon window. We had a million memories of the attic room that we both remembered and promised each other we'd never forget. As a boy, our family lived in a two-bedroom house with five people. Because I was the only boy, the attic became my bedroom. It was the perfect place for me: large, with an octagonal window I could look out of at the world below. I liked that adults had to duck their heads, since the rafters were only a few feet higher than me, so they usually just called my name from downstairs to come down for a meal or do chores.
To me, my room became a playground, with plenty of room to ride my pedal car, set up battlefields for games of war, and keep my collections of comic books, jars full of marbles, and kites hanging from the rafters. There was only one light, the one in the stairwell that barely lit my room, so Dad helped me hang Christmas lights throughout the space, which eventually helped my fear of shadow people disappear.
On the far side, things were stored: boxes labeled Grandma and Grandpa, old dishes, an old hat rack, and two sleds that would be retrieved when the snow arrived. An old rocking chair sat there, used to rock several babies over time, and a birdcage I was told belonged to my great-grandma, who loved birds that sang the most beautiful songs. As the years passed and I grew taller, I had to crouch around my room, but it was a small price to pay for my sanctuary away from the chaos of two sisters who shared a room downstairs.
I was fifteen when my folks sold the little house and moved into a large four-bedroom house across town. My room was nothing like my attic room; it lacked character, but with some imagination, I turned it into a quiet space I called my own. I had an aquarium with different kinds of fish and that old bird cage where my lovebirds sang to me. I had a shelf filled with books I loved, like Moby-Dick, Adventures of Tom Sawyer, Swiss Family Robinson, and many more. And my pride and joy: a collection of comic books dating back years, some in plastic to preserve their pristine condition. Little did I realize many of them would be worth hundreds of dollars and more.
Decades passed, and I did a hitch in the army, going home on leave a couple of times a year, thanking my baby sister for feeding my fish and lovebirds, who always sang loudly every time I came home. More time passed, and I married my high school sweetheart. We spent many days looking for our first house, mostly in my old neighborhood, when we came upon my old house for sale. There was an open house sign, so we went inside and were greeted by a realtor who told us to look around, but I headed straight for the attic, where my childhood bedroom was. I had to crouch as Dad did, and although it was smaller than I remembered, it was everything I remembered.
We bought that house, started our family, and eventually had to put our son in my old attic room. I would be on bended knees as we played with my old toy soldiers and my favorite books on a shelf handed down to my son to read and enjoy as I did a long time ago. I strung colored lights to brighten his space, promising no shadow men would lurk in the darkness or peer through the octagon window. We had a million memories of the attic room that we both remembered and promised each other we'd never forget.
Mike 2026
