A Trip to the Attic
My parents called and told me
they were redecorating.
A euphemism, kindly asking me
to get rid of my stuff.
It amused me, as it described our relationship perfectly:
Their words had never hurt me, but the unspoken ones
had left scars far beneath the surface.
—
“Just donate it,” I had told them.
But my parents had never been that fond of giving
so I was to come by the house.
“Sunday,” they had decided,
and I could do nothing but comply.
I had felt like a child again,
not old enough for my voice to matter.
A quick search on the web told me,
the bins were closed that day.
This seemed less of a coincidence but more of a
gentle reminder:
That I never was but also never could not be
their child.
—
I did come by on Sunday.
I was fifteen minutes late: the only form of rebellion within my reach.
My mother in her Sunday’s best and my father, after all those years
still trying his best.
They did not comment on my tardiness, which infuriated me.
I was granted a hot cup of tea instead;
“For when the conversation runs cold?,” I joked.
They looked at me puzzled.
I would have declined, of course, if she would have offered.
Insisting was more her cup of tea.
I drank mine too quickly; it left blisters on my tongue.
I took it gladly as an excuse to refrain from speaking.
“Your stuff is in the attic,” I was informed.
So up I went, climbing the spiral of stairs which has always been a contradiction
in this house.
I was greeted by another:
my childhood, composed of three boxes.
All were filled to the brim.
—
Dusty pictures and uncertain scribbles
remind me of the girl I once was.
She smiles a crooked smile, trying to hide the dimples in her cheeks.
I read the words she picked so carefully,
which she never dared to utter.
It all seems a distant memory:
A time in which I decorated my I’s with hearts,
in which a pimple was my biggest problem,
and no boy had ever made me cry.
My hands shake but her smile
doesn’t waver.
Her biggest wish was to grow older,
always thinking about ‘later.’
Oh little girl don’t bother;
You won’t be doing yourself a favor.
The girl falls to the ground,
which creaks under the weight of my knees.
I pick her up and turn her around,
to see
the dimples in her cheeks,
smiling back at me.
If I came to love these
hollows in my cheeks.
Maybe, one day
I will do the same
to the ones you can’t see.
10.11.2025