Creak is the sound of steps pressed against old floorboards.
So comforting are the memories of another time
When into the attic I explore.
Dust is layered upon the floor
On boxes
On cans
On tins that hold old sewing things.
Christmas long gone resides in the corner
Halloween by the door waiting for fall
Old dresses lay pressed and folded between delicate paper
That I dare not touch lest they crumble.
From tins come trinkets
In boxes old toys
Through sun shined windows I see clothed mannequins.
This attic so old so layered with dust
I leave unaffected barely a footprint or touch.