The old house

He had to duck his head now in the attic of his childhood home. When he was just a boy it was his bedroom as the house only had two. He stood hunched overlooking around the place where he feared shadow monsters and thunderstorms.  Pieces of string still attached to wooden beams lay still now but once were tied on to paper airplanes that blew in the breeze of an open window. His old bed still stood where it always had only the frame remained, but he remembered the comfort it gave him on cold winter nights or home from school with a fever. He could remember his mom climbing the creaking steps with a bowl of hot soup or a plate of cookies and a glass of milk.

He spotted an old trunk covered with the dust of ages and made his way to it wondering what it may hold inside? Opening the trunk, he let out a sigh as he saw hundreds of photographs and notebook paper yellowed with age. This was his mom’s trunk he remembered it being in her bedroom and it seemed she was always adding something to it for safe keeping she would say. He sat down on the floor going through hundreds of black and white photos that opened the floodgates and stirred memories of days long gone.

The yellowed papers were stories he had written as a boy. His wild imagination was well known, and he liked nothing more than writing and giving the papers to his mom. You would have thought she would discard them after a bit but not his mom, she kept everything he and his sisters ever gave to her. It was almost dark outside when he closed the trunk and marked it with a piece of paper reading “Property of Mike” The movers would arrive tomorrow and everything not claimed by a family member would be carried off to a charity. Standing outside looking at his old family home brought a tear mixed with a smile as so many memories seemed to hit him all at once.

It was a good old house despite its size. It was filled with laughter and lessons learned, some sadness and loss but always love. Looking down he saw his young son looking at the house beside him. “Looks pretty small dad” he said, “where did you sleep? He pointed to a small octagon shaped window at the top of the house, “way up there” he pointed. “weren’t you scared up there” he asked?  ’NO’ he said, “it was where I was meant to be, and I wouldn’t have changed a single thing”

Mike