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I
climbed
the
stairs
to
the
attic
today,
swept
away
the
dust
and
slowly
opened
her
old
trunk.
The
tissue
paper
was
yellowed
with
age,
crumbling
,
as
my
fingers
tried
to
gently
unwrap
the
treasures
I
had
kept
so
many
years.
There
was
the
fine
linen
hanky,
trimmed
with
elegant
lace
she
always
carried
for
"special
occasions",
the
purse,
strung
with
tiny
beads,
that
had
held
her
compact
and
lipstick
It
almost
seemed
I
could
still
catch
the
subtle
hint
of
her
rose
perfume
she
always
wore.
A
pair
of
white
shoes
she
had
worn
only
a
few
times,
yellowed
with
age
now,
but
still
elegant.
And
there,
still
in
its
soft
leather
case,
her
ivory
handled
manicure
set.
And
a
music
box,
as
I
slowly
raised
the
lid,
I
was
amazed
to
hear
the
soft
sounds
of
"Some
Where
My
Love"
.
Her
diary,
I
picked
it
up,
held
it
close
to
my
heart,
but
no,
no,
I
don't
open
it.
Those
were
her
private
thoughts,
her
hopes,
her
dreams,
disappointments,
and
no,
they
will
forever
remain
only
hers.
I
take
out
the
treasures
she
had
left,
one
by
one.
Dresses
I
could
remember
her
wearing,
some
I
could
not.
News
clippings
from
so
long
ago,
pictures
yellowed
and
faded
with
age
of
people
I
had
never
known.
A
lock
of
black
hair
carefully
wrapped
in
gauze
like
material.
One
by
one,
I
went
through
her
treasures,
that
were
now
my
treasures.
Treasures
that
held
memories
only
for
her,
or
for
me.
For
I
realized
as
I
held
her
Diary
close
to
my
heart,
for
me,
it
was
private,
personal,
not
to
be
pried
into.
For
someone
else
it
would
be
"history",
something
to
be
read
and
then
discussed
around
the
dinner
table,
how
"things
used
to
be."
Her
clothes,
held
up
to
ridicule
because
they
were
so
"old
fashioned".
Her
perfume,
how
"quaint"
was
the
scent.
We
each
have
our
memories,
our
treasures
of
times
past,
of
loved
ones
gone,
but
they
mean
nothing
to
any
one
but
us.
When
we
go
to
our
"family
attic",
our
treasures
in
a
trunk,
that
is
what
they
are,
OUR
treasures,
OUR
memories,
that
mean
all
the
world
to
us,
because
they
are
our
past,
where
we
came
from.
But
to
someone
else,
they
mean
little
or
nothing
,
because
to
them,
without
the
memory
of
the
person,
they
are
only
"Old
Things",
to
be
sorted
through
then
destroyed.
The
things
in
my
Trunk
of
Memories
may
yellow,
disintegrate
,
turn
into
nothing
but
dust
as
the
years
pass,
but
the
memories
in
my
heart,
of
loved
ones,
happy
times,
will
stay
with
me
forever.
And
they
will,
for
me,
always
be
important,
never
"things"
to
be
discarded.
For
they
are
my
past.
Copyright©Aphrodite
1/2002
all
rights
reserved
 
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