to dance. Then, he graciously lay down my mother's wedding dress in his favorite chair and fell asleep next to it. I thought, my father had made his own treasure ...
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He nodded and resumed watching his TV show while I made the familiar track to the bathroom. While soaking in the tub, I made plans to clean the attic and to ask my husband to get attic fans installed when he gets back from his business trip. After a long soak, I put on fresh clothes and headed towards the living room to ask my Dad if he wanted a bedtime snack. As I approached, I noticed several boxes had been opened and saw various shadows moving along the hallway. The shadows glided around the room so gracefully that I could almost hear music. And then, there he was. My father had found my mother’s faded wedding dress. He had caught hold of one of the long sleeves in one arm and had tucked the other into the top of his shirt and was waltzing to the memories of music in his mind. I sat on the floor and watched him until he became too tired to dance. Then, he graciously lay down my mother’s wedding dress in his favorite chair and fell asleep next to it. I thought, my father had made his own treasure hunt and I had found the elusive twinkle again, this time in my father’s eyes.
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The Dance from the Attic
©2008 BETH ANN FIEDLER 3/64. ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. Date: 01/28/08
The Dance from the Attic Faithwriters Writing Challenge: All That Glitters is Not Gold
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Just barely within the range of my peripheral vision, the faint twinkle in the shadows caught my eye. The attic was filled with so many nooks and crannies that it was hard to pinpoint an exact location. In the cramped space, I did my best to face the general direction where I thought it had emanated and turned to face it head on. I looked again. Nothing. I let out a long stream of air and coughed from the backlash of dust.
Despite my contortionist efforts, the twinkle eluded me. I kept trying to recapture that exact posture which had brought the twinkle to my attention. But each attempt told me that for now, I had to accept that I could not get a clear view that would allow me to locate that Greek cookie recipe that my sister had requested. Oxygen deprived in the sweltering heat of the enclosed room and covered in unknown debris, it was time to call it a night.
Easing back from the rafters that I had traversed to get to the section where I thought it was located, I spoke aloud to myself. “I swear that recipe is in the old metal box that dad placed up here in the attic after mom passed.” ‘What?” My father called from the living room. “Oh, nothing. Just talking out loud to myself.” “Just don’t answer.” I smiled. “I won’t.” He returned his attention to some treasure hunt show that had recently become popular. He seemed content, but my father had grown very ill during the past few months. Each day he seemed more disengaged.
The Dance from the Attic
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My husband had insisted that Dad move into our house when my Mom passed. I realized it had been ten years since we had loaded up our attic with the remnant of the house that I had grown up in. I was horror struck that I might have donated some items in error and that the recipe was lost for good. But for now, I definitely had to soak off the cobwebs that had managed to work their way through my clothing and h e a d e d f o r t h e b a t h . The next day the challenges of the previous night were alleviated by a good nights rest and the hope that today would be the day that I would find that recipe. With my best foot forward and despite the expected heat, I headed up to resume the search. But this time, I had a plan. I would use my house cl eani ng method in the attic-move it all out, clean, review and then figure out what stays. It was a harsh, but effective approach. After an unknown number of trips, I carefully placed every box in a neat stack that made a bee line from the kitchen through the hallway on to the living room right behind my father’s favorite chair.
“Well, these will have to wait until I can wade through them tomorrow,” I said to my Dad.
©2008 Beth Ann Fiedler 3/64.
