In the attic at grandmother’s house,
I love to turn the stair.
Such a dim and quiet place,
Stacked at random, memories there
Not a single lock on the door,
Yet a trip must be carefully planned.
The time to visit takes decades or more,
As our minds with visions are filled
The attic trunk is carefully opened
And the dust on the lid slides away.
On the shelf, a key shares space with the clock.
Its hands never move any day.
In the tray on top love letters lay,
Still tied by my grandmother’s hand
She put them away on the day she wed.
The man of her choice gone away
Pictures of family: dad, mother, and me.
The flower garden, the big Cypress tree,
The ladder nailed high upon its trunk,
Put there by my father, the boy.
I have traveled miles in the space of this room,
The attic at the top of the stair,
I’ll come again and again as long as I can,
For the peace and memories there
--Ruby Anne L., Adult