Tears in the Attic

“why does my father always make me do the hard cleaning?” I complained to myself as I pulled on the string that led into the attic. “Making me clean the attic he dirtied like I’m his slave or something.” The stairs swung down and nearly hit me in the head. “Just my luck, I forgot the stupid things were broken.”

I started up the stairs, prepared to give it the quickest cleaning I could possibly do so that I could get back to my game. As soon as my eyes crossed the threshold of the attic, I remembered that I hadn’t been in the attic in a very long time. The attic was, in a word, horrendous. Aside from the dormant spiderwebs seemingly everywhere, there were overflowing boxes filled with sentimental junk that no one would look at again. Papers and tools scattered across the floor like the person who put them there was trying to cover as much square footage as possible. And don’t get me started on the books. Why were there so many books in the attic when we have a fully functioning office library?

With the attic being so dirty I decided to do what anyone would do in my position. I decided I would stuff everything into new boxes so that everything would close and push them to the side. As little as my parents use this room, I doubt they would even notice. I started with the books. This was also part of my plan; the books were easy to gather and could be brought downstairs to show tangible proof of my work.

As an avid reader, going through the books was definitely going to be the most time-consuming part, especially since I noticed a lot of goodies and classics in the mix. They had The Great Gatsby, To Kill a Mockingbird, The Catcher in the Rye, and even an older print of Ayn Rand’s Atlas Shrugged, and they were all rotting away in this, long since forsaken, attic. As I was going through the abandoned books, there was this little black notebook that caught my eye. Picking it up, I noticed it was a smooth, soft leather. The notebook was in good condition for the amount of use it seemed to have gotten.

“A journal?” was my first guess, I was right. Opening the book to a random page, I saw countless entries. Some entries lasted only a fraction of a page, while others spanned several pages. Being the curious cat that I am, I started to read the entrees.

01/22:

It’s another cold night. I’m staying in the outhouse to get away from the wind until they will let me back in. Despite the discomfort the cold brings to every limb in my body, I’ve learned to find this weather beautiful in a way. Hearing how the wind howls and blows against everything in its path but nature doesn’t seem to feel its piercing teeth. Seeing how the trees have long since gone bare but still show the hope of new leaves in the coming season. I see the beauty, even if it causes me pain.

1/23:

They never let me in last night. I’m writing this entry late in the day because I’m just getting full use of my hands back, as they were too stiff to use for writing, I guess the cold really gives you an appreciation for warmth.

Flipping through the pages I noticed a trend. This journal was filled with the abuse stories of a stoic child who found beauty behind the harsh reality of his life. “This must be Grandpa’s journal; I’ve never heard of these stories before.” I thought to myself as I continued.

4/21:

My principal came over to my house today, he asked my parents why I had bruises lining my legs causing me to limp again. I’m an active kid, so my excuses are plentiful. I’m just happy that there’s someone out there who cares about me.

5/17:

The smell of freshly baked bread is so good and the taste is even better. Sometimes I forget that not all bread is hard, I wish I could eat this every day. I don’t really have much of a reason for this entry, I just don’t want to forget the happiness this bread brought me.

Reading the sufferings this child had to endure and the knowledge that this person is family made me tear up a bit. Wiping my eyes, I quickly flip to the last entry of the book.

2/09:

This is the worst day. I’m not sure if I should bottle up my feelings or scream. In a world where there is no sun, no one misses the sun. But in a world where there is one, everyone waits eagerly for the next time the sun will rise each day. When that sun doesn’t rise, the world seems to have turned on its head. All seems hopeless, all seems dark. Why was my sun taken from me? Why was I left with a hole in my chest? Why did both parents I loved so much have to be in the car at the same time during the accident?. . .

Why would this child care so much for these people who mistreated and abused him his whole li--. My thoughts were cut short and I stopped reading because my eyes couldn’t help but notice the name written on the last page: Michael Smith, my father. I turned and looked at the work I was complaining about and began to cry at my selfishness.

“Maybe I should clean the room without complaining or taking shortcuts,” I said to myself as a closed the little black notebook and got up.