Maybe I was an odd child, but it wasn't the basement that scared me, it was the attic. Our basement was well lit, but the attic was a different story. I remember my Mom going up there for short periods of time. Sometimes, it was just prior to holidays to retrieve decorations or even to retrieve a section of gift wrapping that Mom had saved that she liked. Yep...Mom was one of those people who took gift wrapping off that she liked so that she could look at it or use it again. I found myself as an adult being reluctant to venture to the attic. I am not sure why. Maybe it was from all those stories my older brother would make up and tell me when I was a kid that Mom would get so mad about because I would have bad dreams. At any rate, I just wouldn't go to the attic. I have found though that with my father-in-law passing from ALS that we still had a lot of his things, even after dividing his memorabilia out to my husband's siblings. I just could not cram any other stuff in my basement. I looked up at the attic doors and decided that this was where I needed to put my the remainder of my sister's things after she passed from ALS. I had put them there and closed the door on the attic. For some time, I didn't venture back in there, but now I find myself in there quite a bit. Going through things that reminded me of the early years of growing up with her. Much to my surprise, it brought me comfort, where before it brought a flood of tears. It is ironic to me that a place that once I feared as a child would now be a quiet place of reflection and solace for me.
