The Attic

I wrote this a few years ago and I'm reminded of "the hill". I grew up on Capital Hill in Seattle where all the Irish Catholics swarmed the streets. Facebook now has a group page called "Hillers" and we are all basking in the glow of memories lit up like an old picture film. Here is my poem about my childhood home that I miss greatly.

The Attic
That muggy lived in room, held the key to the memories of family members who once occupied it. It took on the personality of all its’ occupants, at least 10 I know of.
Room designs I now recall, Farrah and Olivia posters belonging to the crush inhabited by brother Terry, Christy Brinkley posters admired by sister Theresa who admired beauty.
In the end, mattresses, boxes, dust, covered the light/shadow patterns on the floor.
The West window, tiny as a cubbyhole, performed as watchtower to the neighborhood or solace from life’s storms.
Open the door, climb the deep wooden stairs, pull the string to bring in dim light, and find secrets in treasures left behind by life’s authors. Or search for memories of feelings once felt as an adolescent in search of her soul.
Ancient electrical wires veil the spiritual vault that no longer exists for this family, but remains in their hearts.
I miss the attic.