Maybe if anyone else climbed the long, steep stairs up to my grandpa's attic, they would find little more than an unfinished room that gets too cold in the winter and unbearably hot during the late months of summer. But, I see something much different. The bare walls and familiar, musty smell bring the room to life the second that I enter. Images of dancing children with bowler hats and canes flash through my mind. The faint echo of carefree laughter rings in my ears. I can picture the old bureau that used to stand against the wall. The same feelings of curiosity and wonder take hold of me as I remember standing at that exact spot, opening those old drawers for the hundredth time. The mysterious button box was always in the same place, ready to be explored yet again.
Now, of course, things have changed. Lives have passed, and simplicity has been lost. Children's dances have been sacrificed, in exchange for a world where innocence holds little power. And, the bureau is gone, along with the button box, both moved from their sacred dwelling into my own undeserving home. Stored away in a much too cluttered basement, their charm has now faded, and the mysterious has become commonplace. Still, I know that there exists a certain energy which these objects have buried deep within them. And, the comfort lies only in knowing exactly where their magic can be found. It will always be hidden at the top of a long staircase where memories wait patiently for a willing soul to return.
Now I'm curious. Where do your memories and inspirations merge?