Featured Personal Narrative

There are ghosts in my attic.  They are in every corner and in every box.  I hesitate to walk up there and linger for fear I may be forced to feel - a memory of pain.  Worse yet, I hesitate to walk or sit among them for the penultimate fear that I will erupt into sobs, surrounding me in an ocean of salty tears.  You see, the ghosts in the attic bring to mind so many of my life’s joys and sorrows - so inextricably intertwined with each other that glorious memories soon give way to inconceivable grief and pain.  And that pain leaves me longing for moments in places with some people long gone.

Voices float high in the otherwise stale air, and so I pause with each step, as I climb the attic stairs to spend time among them.  They call my name, echoes bouncing off the rafters, beckoning to me - to be remembered.  They are in the boxes whose lids I tentatively lift.  There in the corner, deep inside the childhood toy chest, tucked in each small box gently placed in the rooms of the abandoned doll house - I hear whispers, “Nora, we mattered to you once.  You loved us then.  Come.  Remember.  Feel.”  I panic at the thought of baring my soul to such things - and the memories they reveal.  Not one stands alone, happily, without gut wrenching pain - discomfort I’d rather forget. 

Life's echoes bounce off the joists way above me - they softly reverberate each day I live in the floors below.  I hear them, feel their weight on my shoulders, their burden in my heart.  I tread lightly in the attic stairwell each time that I go - unsure which will call to me.  What will be revealed and revisited with each trip I take?  If I open that small box over there, mislabeled, for sure, for years of reuse, what will be unveiled once I lift its lid?   What story lies within the carton’s walls, waiting to be retold?  Will it be something I’ve long forgotten or pushed aside - just there in that wee cardboard carton hidden in the rafters?

There are countless spirit guides watching over me, there among the highest beams; of that, I am certain.  And each time I go there, one more reveals itself, as I drag a container to the center of the floor, pull it to the stairwell, sit at the edge, lift the lid, and begin to unearth the past.  As I do so, childhood teddy bears beg to be cuddled, beloved pets come for a visit, lost lovers and spouses remind me of what was given, denied, or yet to be forgiven.  Friends, once dear, call up the stirring power of grace; cherished acquaintances whose addresses have been long forgotten bring to mind the roles so many have played in shaping an imperfectly beautiful life.  

Those specters on the third floor - just below the nails and cobwebs, spiders and dust, the occasional leaks, and cold in winter - are there with the fourth cat to call this dusky place its feline fort; it’s his inherited perch by the window tucked in the north facing peak.  My beloved grandmother is that in that attic, telling me she loves me still.  My mother and father are there, too, reminding me of the joy and pain, sacrifices, and struggle that came with each year we walked this earth together.  Notes, letters, postcards, and cards with the script that belonged to each and every one of them live there, too - sharing love, pride, pleasure, pain or grief - experiences shared, wants, needs, and fears - it’s all under the eaves, resting atop the creaking floorboards, waiting to be rediscovered, embraced, cherished, mourned, forgiven, or maybe given a second - or third - chance to get it right.

Those garreted residents live where I cannot fully stand, except at the very center - at the roof’s peak.  Reaching for any box sitting closer to the eaves risks a roofing nail grazing my scalp - it is cautious business exploring each memory tucked away safely up there - and so I move cautiously, deliberately, as I reach for each one that contains pieces of my life and the lives of those I’ve known - and loved - and lost.  And as I open each one, I sift, and sort, and sniffle. Dust mites and tears - reasons for tissues ever near - as I revisit pieces of me - of those who have touched my life in ways both great and small.  Photographs live there in the attic, too.  Birthdays, baptisms, graduations, bridal showers, weddings, a lifetime of gatherings, lost loves, and lovers rediscovered - all call out to glorious days and celebration of a life lived fully - without fear. These shadows smile back at me, living in each moment - some calling, “I love you still. Please forgive me.”

There are ghosts in my little house - right up there - in the attic. The sun beats down upon the roof that encloses them, keeping me away from them on a hot summer’s day.  The cooling rain washes the roof above them, but there they endure - unwashed and unforgotten.  It is when the leaves start to fall, and gardens begin their rest that I visit the ghosts the most.  There in my glasses, hair tied back, with a bag, and a box of tissues.  I go there each fall, armed and ready to face them - daring every one to make me cry - always ready when the tears finally come.  Inevitably, my sobbing brings the resident cat from the north facing perch, weaving its body around my waist, and under my arms, leaning against me, meowing its feline comfort, and then I amble down the stairwell to the life I lead below the attic.  In that moment, I give way to the quiet of winter, with its soft falling snow that blankets the roof that sits above the ghosts. I leave them to sit in silence for a season or two - or three. They know I’ll be back next fall - to remember - to laugh - to cry - to rediscover gratitude - to be humbled - to forgive.

Copyright 2020, Nora Gannon