The Attic

The growing shadows from the flickering kerosene lamp you held covered the disappointment in your eyes. We could hear my mother practicing her singing from downstairs. Her voice travelled into the attic, bouncing around the triangular shaped roof. But she didn’t know we were still here. Your face was lit by the glow of the lamp, but everything around us faded into blackness.

We were sitting in that attic for hours, but it didn’t get us any farther than the times we had before. You were waiting for a miracle to happen. But, the truth is, I just wanted to spend more time with you. Our time in the attic sometimes turned into something wonderful. Like the time we sat on the window ledge overlooking the river and watched the fireworks as they soared into the sky. The colours rained down, landing in the trees. The very same trees we spent hours climbing years before.

Sometimes when we sat up there long enough, it was almost as if the river stopped and stood still. The wind blew away and left us in silence. Those were the times I remember best, all the emotion within me would just be released. I was contented.

It was always different in the winter. My mother's singing was accompanied by the sound of the crackling stove heating the house. Although, the heat never seemed to reach us in the skeleton of the roof. We’d snuggle up close, wrapped in every blanket we could muster from the linen closet. My fathers heavy boots could be heard on the cobblestone as he walked down the street to his store. The river became camouflaged by the pristine coat of snow it wore in these months. Sometimes it sparkled as the sunlight caught it. Almost as if it were made of diamonds. The trees stood bare, their branches shivering in the wind.

We left the attic some days, and we’d bring our ice skates to the pond. My father always tried his best to keep it a secret, but the pond was fake. It was dug into the ground and lined with concrete. We believed it had come from the fresh spring on the mountains. We’d sit for hours trying to put our ice skates on, sipping at the hot chocolate from the thermos my mother sent with us. Our tattered scarves would be way too long and almost cover our whole faces.

Even though we complained about the cold, I lived for the winter. I lived for the times we spent on the pond, and under the blankets. It only became better when Christmas would come around. It would always smell delicious throughout the house. The distinct scents of cinnamon, nutmeg and gravy would fill my nose. My mother was always cooking for the guests she had. We’d take more time as a family. My parents took us out into the woods to find the perfect tree. We all watched in awe as my father cut it down with his hatchet. There’d be a splintering crack just before it came toppling over, depositing all the snow it held onto the ground.

I remember one Christmas in particular. It was in the same little house, just beside the bakery. The roads were slippery from the storm the night before. We took our saucers and we ran as fast as we could to the hill at the base of the mountains. My mother yelled after us to be careful, then I saw her close the door with a smile. We sat on the top of the hill together. Watching the snow fall and catching it on our tongues. Then on your count of three, we’d run. Our little bodies would soar into the air, and come crashing down onto our saucers. Head first, we’d fly down the hill. Tumbling after one another, laughing the whole way down. We’d come back to the house, kicking off our wet boots, pulling off our snow suits. My mother would be in the kitchen preparing our dinner.

After dinner we announced we were heading to your house, but we’d find ourselves in the attic. The kerosene lamp illuminating the area. You would tell me, in a hushed voice, the stories about the places we were going to go together. I believed every word you told me, and I sat with anticipation just wanting to run away with you right there. We would then sit in silence. Until the music from the phonograph floated up into the attic. My parents were dancing in the kitchen. My father swept my mother around the room, laughing the whole way. She would twirl in and out of his arms with a smile on her face. That was a time they were truly happy. They were truly in love. My father never raised his voice at my mother. He respected her the way he should. I think you were always a little envious of that.

Our days in the attic would slowly turn to spring as the snow began to disappear, and the buds would return to the tree branches. The river would flow once again, and we’d run barefoot through the park. You loved the spring time. You told me it was the perfect mix of warmth and promise. Promise for what was going to come, what the winter would leave behind.

One day you took off as quickly as the winter did. You left our brick house, the cobblestone streets that connected our lives. You left the river and the dock. You left the mountains. I spent hours in the attic by myself. Sometimes with the kerosene lamp, sometimes without it. My mother began to call after me when I didn’t come down for dinner. You never explained why you had to go. I didn’t think I’d ever understand it. But now that I’m older, maybe I do.

Sometimes I go back to that house. The one we grew up in. I take the train across the country, back to that little town. I pass the bakery, I stare at the river and I walk up to the front door. Nothing has changed. My footsteps would crunch in the snow a little deeper than they had when we were young. My shadow was cast a little longer. But the rest was the same. The knocker on the front door that was almost falling off, and the screen was still broken on the window in the attic.

I spent some time near the pond. It felt as though you were almost with me, with your hands cupped around the thermos of hot chocolate. Other kids had discovered it and began skating on it as well. It didn’t feel right. It felt like they were taking what was mine. But I stared on. When I got up to leave, I knew it would be the last time. I said goodbye to the house. I wrapped myself up in my scarf as the harsh winter wind came down the lane. As I stepped on the train, my heart sunk.