My attic has changed.
For fifty years we stored our treasures there,
my mother’s wedding dress
great-grandfather’s solemn face in ornate frame
love letters from high school days.
Change. My house is sold.
I return grandchildren’s drawings.
My brother’s wife cherishes letters from war-time years,
My daughter has my mother’s dress.
The attic is bare,
but my heart is full
of what has been.
– Naomi C Wingfield
