There’s this dusty sunshine in my attic.
It is soft around the edges and has a worn, warm look about it.
I feel the world slow its turning to match the graceful pirouette
of what looks like a cloud of memories
gently glinting and turning in the shaft of light.
Long shadows drawn across my Grandparent’s souvenirs,
strappy leather trunks and paper hat boxes stacked neatly
holding the bones of their life, awaiting my touch to reveal their secrets.
To reach them, I have to break through the crust of my childhood
scattered across the surface of my Parent’s early life.
Square cardboard boxes, some so soft from use
they drape across their contents like fabric.
Shoeboxes poke out here and there,
spring flowers turning toward the light.
Everywhere I reach I touch some shiny treasure of my life;
not packed up, but simply lying where it dropped as it made its way here.
Too good to throw away, too precious for the thrift store,
too poignant to keep on my nightstand any longer.
Every object is a soft burst of emotion,
little echoes of feeling falling against my chest
like the dull thud of distant fireworks.

A noise from below breaks my unexpected reverie.
I feel lost and disoriented, as if I had wandered into Starbucks
after living in the wilderness for a year.

I gather my thoughts along with the Christmas lights I had come to retrieve
and head back down into the depths of home,
where currents run deep as they push and pull me along,
time once more running at the speed of life.