"The Attic" by Linda Munson Peth

Time has no particular meaning in the attic.

It is the closest, the dearest thing to heaven in the house.

We are nearest our priorities when we ascend these stairs,

The last of a list of steps.

We, one and the same, sifted, are dust settling into our places,

The sum and final conclusion of all

We have seen and been.

Our names, the names of every occupant in

Ghost House, are etched on the rafters,

The beams, the seams of the floorboards,

Laughter locked away in cracks, trunks, crates of molding memories,

Old dreams,

Faded dresses for every occasion,

Left letters and funeral notes written in

Scrawls and scripts.

The Ghost Children create a new world upstairs,

New songs,

Bringing us along to witness the pageant that they present,

A pain and pleasure to living beholders. 

This play of light, on words, showcases the motives of our children,

Magic and instructive,

Love for their mother and father,

Who sit as silent observers,

Sadly watching as their faces change and

They become our grandparents

Or great-grandparents

And others who resemble us to a great degree.

We see, however, that they are not just like us,

Despite the earthly connection.