Frozen Memories

Frozen Memories:
By Gayle Street


The attic was cold. A single shaft of light cut through the musty darkness, illuminating
crouching old trunks and stately, sheet-covered mannequins. A thousand sparkles floated lazily
in the spotlight, winking in and out of existence. The air held its breath. A soft sigh. The dust settled. Time edged seamlessly on, trapping moments in black-treacled stillness.

A cacophony of silence beneath a skeletal ribcage arching overhead. A still and stifled breath wandered the dusty canyons where none, not even rats, seemed to live anymore; a landscape pale and untouched. Only the echo in this deathless tomb could remember the fullness of life, as there was no life here. No newness. Only an eternity of knowing, being and patiently waiting.

And yet an intruder dared challenge this silent kingdom. Dared stir the thick-snowed dust where it peacefully lay. Dared enter a court enshrouded in the past and stand before a throne that time
had forgotten. The very surrounds shrieked in their silence, that such a person should disturb
their rest; if that is what it could be called. He could feel it as he stood alone, proud, in a pool of graying light. The baleful glare of the scabbed windows bored into him. He represented
something that no longer existed anymore. An ever-changing entity whose body continually shed
that which was old and seemed to thrive on diversity and change. The attic wallowed in its dusty skin.

The stranger took a deep breath; the air was thick with the past. There was sadness here.
Forgotten love. Silent joy packed under layers of mothballed linen. The echo of a teenager’s shout almost heard in an old, wooden bat ensnared in webs of the past. The keeper of the past spun idly while no breath of wind swayed the empty shells of previous visitors.

The intruder lingered, fouling the air with moist warmth and trailing fingerprints, touching places
where the memory of touch no longer remained. He walked quietly, feeling the history. It was
everywhere; in a silken scarf lying forgotten on a chest. He saw it in the music box perched on a shelf. He knew, It knew, he was there. He was aware the place did not want him there. And yet he persisted; not allowing the darkness to oppress him into leaving. It would not push him through the door before his mission was ompleted. The silence was a burden unto itself that weighed the air around him. Dusting off a photo he glimpsed grim faces that knew no smiles. The sparkles in the light danced; blissfully unaware of anything other than the joy of the light; not seeing the stranger lightly brush off an old clawed chair and sit with a puff of dust as motes took to the air, flung from their rest.

Under his warm hands, silver and wood moved aside. The stranger was aware of the sound of his
breathing. It was reverberating off the walls; a noisy echo in the silence. A cardboard box
yawned, and in the dimness the man squinted as he shifted its contents. Papers rustled and crackled under his touch. Books were gently lifted, their stories captured beneath thick, peeling covers. An etched mirror paused briefly within his grasp as an undistinguished face peered blearily in return. Next came a vase where a Grecian goddess forever reached out, eternally falling short, the fruit forbidden to touch. A diary briefly opened revealing brown spider-scratches dancing incomprehensibly from page to page. Teared smudges guided both joy and melancholy.

The stranger sighed, dusted his hands and moved on. What he sought was not within the bowels
of the box. Sheets were lifted, chests were opened and beetles were sent scurrying for darkness at the sudden movement; the evidence of life had not been known in their lifetimes. The
search was unrelenting as boxes and trunks alike were splayed for all to see and for the first
time…newness was found. A change was considered and the attic leaned in for a closer look.

Small and white; pink too. Blue surfaced, as did green. Flowers and bows slid between fingers and petite, lacy clothes lay in the lap of the intruder. Small buttons, soft collars and perfectly formed shoes. Not just evidence of life, but that of life to be. The man smiled. A window shuddered at his touch, protesting as warmth pervaded its turning handle. Then, softly at first, like whispered breathing…the air moved. The door shifted slightly. The window opened and life entered. Beyond the brown-edged glass, green-topped trees stretched upward, bathed in golden light. Birdsong and the excited rush of wind shattered the silence. Across the street the giggling play of children rose to meet dusty ears and the low hum of a car roared, then faded. But above all that another sound could be heard. Not from without but from within. A tiny sound of life yet innocent of death. The cry of an infant reached the intruder’s ears and for the second time he smiled. The sound wafted up the stairs and through the door to the attic. Holding his findings, the stranger crossed the room, leaving prints that no longer seemed as sacrilegious
as were necessary; for proof of life. A doorway briefly filled then emptied.

And suddenly in his absence there was a sense of loss not known before. A sense of newness so profound that in the silence that followed, the attic took a breath…then breathed.