Just An Old Attic

As we ransack Grandma's jumbled attic in her blatant old house, numerous ladybugs and even a mouse snared in yellow dust, layered thick. A rusty dress form displays only a hat and a distant wall sports a battered ole' bat. Boxes of antique shoes are staged in a perfect row. Scads of newsworthy magazines, records of years past, pictures, fashions of Victorian times in frames, made of wood to last. From a rickety stairwell it's an effort to sneak a peek. There's little chance to run around, no space for hide and seek. Large lofty windows appear to leak as the floor feels unsound. A passé leather trunk full of winter scarves and such sits on a mattress, once a GI's bunk. Ah, there's a large Webster's lexicon next to pieces of broken glass from a battered kitchen hutch A brass rack holds a faded quilt draped in a heaped mass. There's a wheel chair, a crutch - wonder where those have been? There's Grandpa's old uniform with many medals, somewhat torn. An empty silver flask that once held his Gin. A child's rockin' horse sits alone beside an honest-to-God telly with a cradle & faded numbers from overuse of long ago. A recipe file in a dark corner, at least that's what the label says. I wonder how often Grandma sat up here after Granddad passed away? Many old treasures, to her so dear, as well as her Bible & an old rug upon which she would kneel to pray.