Voices in the Trunk

We open the door and ascend the crickety stairs to the attic. Someone is ahead of me – my sister, cousin, aunt, I am not sure. Grandfather is behind me.

The wooden must of 50 years past fills my nose. It is hearty and light. It is the kind that sticks with you for years long after the attic has been cleaned and house sold. My hand right hand grasps the railing as a guide. I've always gotten an anxious feeling up here.

Clothes hang from the racks. Toys sit in bins and old photos, awards, and certificates line boxes. It is the artifacts of a life before me. The stories behind each fascinate me. I forget for which relic we seek today.

As the lady ahead of me and I rummage through the lives past, Grandfather stands back and watches us from the top of the stairs always calling out directions where to look.

After what seemed to be ever, he calls us over to the corner to the left of the stairs (not the side that held the even older stuff of his and Grammy's past). We are ready to accept that we won't find it.

I stand next to the wooden rail to the stairs and a black tattered trunk is in front of me. My companion went to go check something again in the back corner where you had to duck. That's better anyways – the confinement made me nervous there, especially with the small glimpse of a window.

Grandfather instructs me to look in the trunk. I tell him I can't – it's on its side and about the same height as I. He tells me to peek as he opens it from his perch on the stairs. Very intent on always following his instructions, I drop my argument. Part of me was always curious on its contents anyways.

It creeks open. I can hear the years of closure in its hinges. Grandfather, forever the storyteller, starts on some tale about leprechauns. However, I am so curious to see what's inside and I only half listen to this story.

Next thing I know the trunk is cracked open and a little high-pitched voice is thanking me for letting him out. I don't know what to do. I slam the trunk closed and run past Grandfather down the stairs. I rush down the stairs again to the first floor.

In the sunroom, Grammy sits in her chair with a wooden bowl of crackers. I tell her that leprechauns live in the attic. She chuckles and says, "Of course they do. We're Irish." Then, she yells out to Gene.

Grandfather comes down the stairs with a grin on his face. He mumbles something about the little green people who came from the hair of the Green Lady and heads into the kitchen to check on dinner.