Steeling Into the Attic
steeling into the attic
how much is contained
in these boxes and bags of stuff?
all of life, now, then and before.
some able to warm the heart strongly
as when newly minted.
cruelty, giving rise to the chill of fear, pain
a very few, sharp as this minute,
tear into the armour long since created
once again worn,
like a poor beggars tatters.
making sense, finally
a piece or two will fit together
a brief ah ha moment, then
death returns, a bit of spirit crumbles,
once again bent beneath the
onslaught of his rage.
I couldn’t walk the next day,
he pulled me to school in the wagon.
some how the pieces got separated
and hidden, in a bag of sadness.
summers at Candlewick free of fear
no other boot would drop, for a while.
I unpack each precious memory
as I would a fragile Christmas ornament
dangle its tantalizing glow
‘mazed at such magic,
always kept in my heart.
I enter sometimes slowly,
to savour the relief of freedom
sometimes quickly, for the rush of joy.
running free-bird through
gently waving, uncut grass
welcome, creaks the aged granny slammer,
the incense of cedar, Ingoldsby Bay and dusty roads
surround promises of love and calm, safe times.
age, years of collecting, storing, unbidden moments
patient sorting fact from not so factual
time softens sting for some
warms the soul for others
my trips to the attic are not fewer
but much more comfortable
I inspect the stew of things that created me
I wonder, how long
will a child’s memories last?
as for me,
I believe in, forever.
Copyright © Patricia Cresswell | Year Posted 2017
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