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.