Dust dances through the attic within shards of light slowly passing time along well worn planks. It’s magic they seek in the eyes of the beholder. They have no fairies or ghosts without the fertile or feeble minds staring in wonder.
Creeks and whistles play staccato games with swaying trees just beyond the pain. But this is a space of remembrance. A place where memories are free to roam through cob webs and yellowed paper.
Slowly I run my hand along wooden chests and metal straps. My mind travels along colorless photos of perfectly groomed alabaster faces wearing oversized suits and cinched dresses. I wonder how long it took these memories to arrive in my hands, in my mind, are they even mine.
I smell the struggle to open these boxes of yesterday. Places and moments are separate in the still morning light. Every box opens with a sigh and closes with a question. Is this real, was that then, or is this some cruel reminder of how distorted time really is. Minutes and hours are easy. Days and nights are bearable because tomorrow still exists. Past this yellow fades white, laughter sounds distant, and feeling is a remembrance or dream.
But I have what’s left of my memories in a box, that’s fortunate. I have captured time, or has it captured me, sometimes I wonder. What my hands can’t grasp my mind helps along. As the dust dances on in the light of a new day I’ll become the memory. A blessing and the curse of a life long lived.