She went to the attic at times like these. It didn’t cause childhood nostalgia or heat stroke. No, the attic was just a place to go and escape from whatever scene she had swiftly exited below. There were dust balls and forgotten boxes and half opened windows. But really there was just quiet and a stillness that blanketed every thought and feeling. Downstairs, angry words tumbled from her mouth. And then they were gone. They had bit just enough to knock things off. The dust didn’t settle quite right after. The attic had heard it all. It had no comment.
The AtticIn by Fannie on December 3, 2010 at 1:56 am