Terrified of the serpentine medley of emotions that come with heartache, I stood in the stillness of my grandmother's attic.
I had waited months before I was able to muster enough courage to even scribble the activity down in my agenda; I was in dire need of accountability. Like a countdown to my emotional demise, I'd marked the days on a calendar as if I were taking a trip to Nevis instead of down memory lane.
I looked upon the heaping stacks of photo albums and memorabilia, the weathered, yellowing triangles of important documents poking through a collection of tomes.
"Oh, Nana. I wish we were doing this together."
A twinge of wistfulness pricked at my heart. In the years leading up to my grandmother's passing, I'd offered to help her reorganize the attic twice. Both times, the stubborn woman had told me to mind my own business.
"You are my business, Nana."
"Well, how you gon' have time to change the world if you're busy cleaning out some old lady's attic?"
"I'm not trying to change the world, Nana. I'm trying to change your world. A little dusting ain't gonna hurt ya."
She cut her eyes at me the way only a grandmother could.
"I'll get to it eventually. Ain't nothin' in there that can't wait."
A soft chuckle escaped my lips as I pondered my strong-willed, keen, and gentle grandmother.
I inhaled a big breath, filling my lungs with oxygen before exhaling the looming shadow of anxiety. I wasn't afraid of my emotions – I was afraid of erasing her, somehow.
My eyes roamed the attic as I stood, flummoxed, about where to begin. Tugging on the pull shade, the vinyl wound around itself sending a gust of dust throughout the sloped but spacious room.
The late morning light filtered through filmy windows, allowing me unfettered views into some of the attic's nooks and crannies. Although there was a lifetime of accumulated belongings stored along shelves and placed in corners, I was surprised by how neat it all was.
My grandmother had never seemed especially lackadaisical about cleanliness, but this kind of deliberate dogmatism felt foreign as I stood in the only home I'd known.
Curious about a box marked Hattie, I pressed a nail against the tape, opening the flaps. Inside existed a small treasure trove of keepsakes that earmarked my time in high school. I set aside several debate team trophies and picked up a photo of my mother and me.
Our family historian, my grandmother, must have captured it without our knowledge. My magnetic mother was showing me the steps to some dance; one hand held mine as she directed me with an outstretched arm. Concentration marred my expression, while hers was full of amused encouragement. There we were, ephemerally frozen in time against the backdrop of my grandmother's kitchen.
With vague remembrance, I could recall learning the electric slide. The living room had become my stage and Motown and Soul records, my soundtrack. My sense of rhythm – my sense of jubilant movement – had been birthed in the groanings of Aretha Franklin and Smokey Robinson and in the crooning of Marvin Gaye and Gladys Knight.
I thumbed through miscellaneous papers, report cards, and academic achievement awards. I pushed away several more boxes with my name on them toward the entrance, vowing to sift through them at a later date.
I crouched near a heavy wooden trunk, errantly wondering how and when my grandmother had managed to haul it up here.
My nose scrunched at the lock barring my entrance. The padlock's body was as ornate as the trunk itself, with tiny otherworldly etchings engraved into the brass.
YOU ARE READING
VOLUME | ONC 2023
Historical FictionIt all started with a pithy little love letter. Harriet is clearing out her grandmother's attic when she discovers a trunk chock-full of relics of the past. What was once an emotionally-daunting episode of spring cleaning has become the discovery o...
