The top of the stairs, wallpaper peeling and thread bare
runner leading me up in the warm yellow glow of the exposed lightbulb, into the
quiet of family history. I was an
archaeologist with domain over a site that I could sift through as foul weather
allowed me respite from my various and vigorous life out of doors, year after
year with my perspective changing like candles on my birthday cakes.
I could count on the rest of them to
leave the site undisturbed—all of the artifacts en situ. An upholstered trunk, faded floral
print, mainly blue, held my grandmother’s silk slip and blue satin night gown,
my mother’s baby dresses and my grandfather’s faded pinstriped baseball
uniform. I didn’t open this trunk
on my own because even though I was a tough little girl I remained a bit jumpy
about encountering mice and knew enough to avoid their havens.
Next to the trunk stood a green painted
bookshelf a foot or so taller than its neighbor. This was my limited library, but one I patronized
frequently. The Five Little
Peppers and How They Grew, Mama’s Bank Account, The Three Little Pigs Golden
Book, Kidnapped, and Hans Christian Anderson’s Fairy Tales, there were others,
but these are the titles—the timeline, that come to me now.
