Musty Comics & Coffee Stained Photos
I'm sitting on a turned over bucket with my face fixated towards the television screen. Here, I'm in my parent's attic watching a four year old boy run across the screen. His dark hair, hiding his cherub-like complexion as he tosses himself across the leaved lawn. No sound is heard, accept that of "Only You", dubbed over his laughter. That was my morning. I was the only able one to sort through a mountain of memories encased in the attic, and I didn't mind it. However, my father is in this "we can only take what we need" termination mode, and it's very unappealing. The task given was to clean out the entire attic, and how much of that actually happened? Not even a little. I spent four hours sorting through old family photos, toys, marraige certificates, letters, clothing, magazines, newspapers, drawings, and videos. I didn't want to throw out any of this stuff, and I didn't understand why he felt like we needed to. So, every half hour I would kick open the stairs leading down to the kitchen, and fill up my mug with coffee. My father, I guess, could hear me tumbling into the kitchen so he would come and meet me, "How's it going?" "Geez, Dad! It's going great. I'm cleaning so well, you won't even recognize the attic. I've been so busy, and I just came down for a drink." I was lying, terribly. I could have just told him that I decided not to toss anything out, and that I really felt that I would even carry it all in large garbage bags to the new home, by myself. But I just didn't, as if that was going to help. Two hours later, my parents were wondering what I was up to. And at this exact moment in time, I'm laying in a box of post 1950's clothing reading a newspaper. I hear the stairs fall. I stop breathing. I hear my parents climbing up the stairs. I start panicking. I'm looking around, and I realize that this is the day that I die. My father's head peaks around the corner, and this look of anger consumes his face. I've never heard so many synonyms for the word 'lazy' before. So, picture this: A race to see who can grab the most of what is scattered in the room. I'm ripping up everything in sight to prevent it's destruction, as my father is tossing things down the stairwell. I'm guessing for a bonfire. My mother is standing in the corner of the attic, waving her arms and yelling. It was a humorous sight, now that I think about it. I have five photo albums shoved inside of my shirt, my aunt's lime green peacoat around my neck, a feather hat, a set of GI Joes', my grandfather's uniform shoes, and a box of letters. My father sees me sprinting towards the doorway, and as I'm looking behind me...all I can see are these two hands reaching towards my face. Well, I trip and slide down the small, wooden, stairway...basically the pea coat is choking me, or my father holding it (still standing up in the attic). I lost the peacoat, but I still have all of this other stuff (which is now secured in my bedroom).
I sat upstairs watching my father out the window. Then, I watched my beloved belongings, engulfed in a four foot flame.
That was my afternoon. |
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