Attic Treasures


Flickers of light

beg to slip through cracks;

tiny footsteps

on wood floors, creak.


Grandma had an attic.

There were cobwebs

the smell of books,

my Mom’s old roller skates

and the doll with button eyes

I thought I had lost.


There were stacks of reader’s digests

and there was a hiding place

where tears were allowed

(even for little girls);


the only place I could breathe

and let dreams out to play;

just me and my pen


scribbling secrets in a big chief tablet.





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