The Attic

The view from my attic window is sky and the tops of old oaks and maples. In the spring I fling open the demi-lune and let the cool green scents of the new season whisk away the dull dry smells of winter. The summer brings in the sound of crickets, kids, and the smoke of patio cookouts. Window wide open to the last of the warm days, autumn is the best. Winter provides watercolor sunsets against black pen and ink branches.

This room, one of two on the third floor is what drew me to this house. I had dreams of putting in a studio where I could be creative and leave the mess behind, ready for the next snatched moment from the real world. The real world took over, which is how it should be, but I never forgot my original plans.
I did forget, on purpose, the idea of a perfect sanctuary. One day when babies became teenagers and puppies grew up and stopped chewing on shoes, I went upstairs and claimed the room as mine. I accepted the unpainted walls and the water stain on the ceiling and was thankful for the lovely half-moon window with the ever changing view.

I moved the junk from that room into the next and threw out all the old ideas that I never pursued. Finally, I surveyed the room and decided that it would do, until the next burst of energy. I sat down in a rocking chair and it was peaceful and almost quiet. I could just barely hear the sounds of my family, two floors below. I rocked and I thought, letting the world take care of itself for once.