The Attic

It was a bleak afternoon. The rain that pounded the grounds outside looked as if it would never stop, not once ceasing in its relentless downpour. I looked through the bay window in my room, spaced out as I stared at the droplets falling down in a gray curtain.

Then again, I guess the current weather was pretty fitting for my state of mind these days; It’s been too long since I saw the sun. Recent events, most prominently my grandmother passing away but a slew of other things too, made sure that such a thing wouldn’t happen for a while.

I shook myself from my thoughts and sighed, getting up before walking towards the attic. The attic was the only place left with any evidence that my grandmother had once lived wonderful, human life. Once I reached the back of the hall, I pulled down the string that was attached to the staircase and slowly ascended into the dusty space, steps creaking and groaning under the newfound weight as I did so.

When. I stepped fully into the attic, I stood for a little while, gazing at the wonders inside. Cardboard boxes, antique chests, large plastic containers – all of them, and more, were scattered at the edges of the room, stacked precariously on top of one another and barely making room for a narrow path in the middle. The small, circular window at the far end of the attic did not provide much light, letting a few dampened rays peak through from the dim day. Instead, I opted to turn on the lone, hanging lightbulb at the center of the ceiling. Reaching up, I tugged the cord and then – light.

The room was now illuminated, with the exception being the distant corners which were still soaked in shadows. So, I started to explore. My mission was to find as much as I could relating to my grandmother, since it seemed like she was all I could think about these days. Carefully, I started to peruse the boxes. There were many trinkets and souvenirs that were fragile and old and could therefore fall apart at the wrong nudge or tug. After a while, I finally found what I was looking for – the box holding my grandmother’s old letters and diary pages.

The box itself was rather unique. It was rectangular and wooden, colored with dark blue paint. The paint, so dark it was nearly black, was a marvelous background for the swirls of gold that lined the top and bottom edges. The gold details, at first glance, looked randomly drawn. At closer inspection, however, one could see that that wasn’t the case at all. Instead, they were painted on with steady hands and precise thoughts. The entire box was a work of art, and it had me curious on how it got into my grandmother’s possession. Then again, maybe her letters could shed some light on the issue.

Slowly, I opened the box and peeked at the stacked papers inside. There were so many that I just picked the one on the very top. Curiosity nearly bursting, I slid my fingers in between the folds and lifted them, revealing the contents of a diary entry written by grandmother decades before I was even born.

June 8^th, 1958

Today was more nostalgic than I imagined it would be. But then again, today was my high school graduation, and it seemed fitting that the air was filled with a heavy sense of nostalgia. 18 years, and I’m finally going to start my very own life! Isn’t that thought just exciting?

The ceremony today had a note of finality in it, but yet, it didn’t. After all, most of my fellow classmates, including myself, will be staying in this town for quite a while. The men will find careers, and us women will have to uphold ourselves with jobs until we find a husband. My friends will be working as teachers and secretaries, but I decided to go to a slightly different path, one more befitting to my nature as a book lover.

These next few years, during my search for a husband, I will be working as a librarian. While the search for a man might not bring results right away, I am looking forward to working at the library. Being surrounded by books and paper all day will be a wonderful feeling. I start work in a few days, so wish me luck!

Just as I finished reading the frayed, yellow-paged entry, a clap of thunder resounded outside and showered the room with white for a brief second. I guessed that it was raining much harder than I thought. Turning back to the page, I reread it a few more times. Although the entry was short, it gave me a small glimpse of what my grandmother’s early life must have been like. Reading about the parts where she and the other women had to “find a husband” surprised me a little – I had nearly forgotten what times were like in the mid-20^th century.

Back then, there were very few jobs women could work, after all. They would find a job and settle in for a few years, only to get married and have to quit in favor of raising their kids while their husband worked. Though there was nothing inherently wrong with being a stay-at-home mother, the lack of choices for women, such as those that wanted to continue working whether they had kids or not, was one reason I was very glad to be born in the mid-90s.

The next few hours, I read letter upon letter, and diary upon diary, not being able to stop. Reading about my grandmother’s life, it seemed, was the kind of closure I was desperately seeking. I read of her endeavors at work, her thoughts, feelings, and experiences with my grandfather (who she loved dearly and truly), and her times as a mother. Seeing the progression of her life, albeit randomly since none of the papers were in chronological order, was very soothing to me. My grandmother was a wonderful person who loved her family very much.

The advice and teachings she had given me over the years, the comfort she brought me during my worst times, the support she provided me when I needed it, even if I didn’t always tell her what was wrong – it all stemmed from the life she lived. The thoughts she had, the emotions she felt, the people she met. I will always be grateful for her existence, and for her involvement in my life.

And so, I spent the rest of the rainy day reading and rereading those letters and entries. Immersing myself in the life of a person that had once lived a long, full life.