Gramma's Attic

by Phyllis Beebe

She never said I couldn't,
But to me it just seemed best
To creep into the attic
When Gramma took her rest.
The stairs were steep and crackled
With tiny cinders under foot
From the many passing freight trains,
Staining fingers with their soot.
There were trunks and bags and boxes
Of discarded family treasure,
Packed with clothes, and books, and trinkets
A delight beyond all measure
To the curious child that I was,
As I quietly explored
Grmma's attic, and uncovered
All the things that she had stored.

Large picture frames with likenesses
Of relatives long "passed",
Were stacked against the chimney
Exiled there at last.
A strange wicker baby carriage
Stood underneath the eave
That MAMA used to ride in it
I found hard to believe.
One dress boasted a bustle
Leg-o-mutton sleeves and trim
Of velvet and jet buttons
With a waist so very slim.
Ancient school books and old novels
I read while sitting there
In a creaky wooden rocker
That was great-gramma's chair.
In the stifling heat of summer
Or the chill of autumn rain
I wish that I could climb the stairs
To Gramma's attic once again.