Storage
She was in the attic again. The house had to be put on the market, she had to leave, she couldn’t bear the thought of existing in this place any longer. Every time she thought of those boxes in the attic, however, a sinking force pulled her back, weighing her down to a sluggish avoidance.
She climbed up the stairs, sat on the ground, took in a short, nervous breath, followed by a more resolved one, and opened the first box. Just some old magazines from the 80s and 90s, saved when she thought that these boldly yellow National Geographics would be worth something someday. Easy enough, recycle. She tried the next. Old magnets from a fridge that was long gone, garish and cheap, put aside in the hopes that the kitchen remodel would take months, rather than over a decade (and counting). A few are saved, the rest can be thrown out. She opens another box, and another, painstakingly trying to remember the meaning behind each item, sorting through what to save, what to donate, and what to toss.
She’s on a roll, when finally, she dragged out one that had been tucked deep into the recesses of the attic awning, coated in dust and faded to an orange tan. When she pushes away the corroding packing tape and lifts a fold, unexpected memories come crashing forward, forcing her back. Her daughter’s baby clothes, her own maternity clothes, clippings from summer concerts she went to while pregnant, baby shower cards from friends she lost contact with years ago, deep red rose petals that had been pressed and placed between each piece of paper fluttering out, the dusky purple satchels of lavender piercing through the musty attic air.
She pulls out one of her maternity dresses, her favorite, a forest green and black one that screamed early 90s. She wore this one to her shower. She remembers enjoying pregnancy, surprised by how natural it felt to grow a life while her’s was set to change irreversibly, a decision she made in the moment, never looking back.
A lovingly detailed white lace dress, tiny, with magenta ribbons inlet around the collar, that her tia had handmade and sent all the way over from her birth country, with a trace of the lipstick stains from when her daughter decided to paint herself using her mother’s favorite shade of red. She remembers how every time she wore that lipstick, her skin would glow, a magical accident plucked out of a sea of options. Too bad they discontinued that one, she sighs.
Underneath is an oversized blouse she had made for herself to wear after giving birth, in that drop shoulder poet style that was popular back then. She wonders if her daughter will want this one, since she has liked other vestiges of her now retro wardrobe, or if she will think it is too old-fashioned. The line between the two is impossible to determine, she thinks.
Sitting back on her heels, she pauses, sucking in her lips and subconsciously chewing on them, deep in thought. After another moment or two, she quietly closes the box, gently pushing it to one side while pulling out another filled with lego sets that she can donate, and moves on.