Sidling up the stair case,
footprints in the dust,
squeaky door,
hinges full of rust.

Hesitantly, she ascends
to the attic.
Relieved, it remains the same.
Dim light through the window,
shadows in the corners.
So glad she came.

Old scrapbooks call to her,
edges fluttering as they speak,
pick me, pick me, hear my story,
corners lifting, just a peak.

Secrets told on paper,
snapshots in monochrome,
faded pink corsages,
a pearl brush and comb.

Worn umbrellas with wooden handles,
skate keys and shoelaces,
hat boxes filled with wigs,
luggage and makeup cases.

Lingering among the
garment bags,
hanging so forlorn,
touching netting,
silk and satin,
some put here
before she was born.

What brings her here today,
she wishes she knew.
Perhaps looking for
something borrowed or blue.

Sandy Parker is a member of the Poets Club of Lincoln

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