IN THE ATTIC

Always, while you slept, we crept from our painted beds and pattered through the quiet house, trailing the hems of our nightgowns and annoying the watchful cats.

Now we sleep in a box in the attic, the delicate among us wrapped in paper. The door is locked and we do not have a key.

When the cold room is lightened by the moon, we sit on a broken cot to read old letters we’ve mined from Grandma’s trunk.

Sometimes we listen at the door and hear your solemn murmurings, but we do not comprehend that far-off tongue.

We long for your hands and eyes, for stories and buggy rides, for cambric tea on summer afternoons.

We ponder the photographs of little girls and the brother with his hammer. We recall how Grandma sewed our dresses and coats with buttons and lace, with careful, even seams.