Bats in My Attic

Dark, dusty, and full of cobwebs; the attic is not my favorite place.

Dark, dusty, and full of cobwebs; the attic is not my favorite place. You can bet I’m not here by choice. The only thing that can drag me up to this level is memories. The kind you can’t bare to face, but can’t throw away either. So you store them in some nasty place you are afraid of until you can’t avoid them any longer.

This is where I am, at the point where the nagging tug at the back of my brain can no longer be ignored. This fluttering hint of something important, that I can’t quite grasp, has forced me up into the attic. Why today of all days? My birthday should be full of joy; after all, life is good. At 51 the best years are ahead of me, right?

Climbing over boxes and swatting at the clinging cobwebs; I wander around, not sure of what I seek and more than a little afraid of what I might find. But the fluttering tells me I’ll know it when I see it.

There in the far corner I see an old wooden box. Clambering over the clutter, I stare at the little box, the fluttering increasing. Years ago, when it was my toy box, black thumb tacks held a cover of Kelly green vinyl. But some time ago I had removed the cracked vinyl to reveal, stenciled on the front and back, the words “GOLD MEDAL DYNAMITE.” With no memory of when it wasn’t a toy box, I have no idea where it came from. But the wild fluttering tells me this is the box I came for. This is the box I need.

I dust off the lid and slowly start to open it; the fluttering intensifies. My dread building, I remember what I hid away in this dynamite box so long ago. This little wooden box holds a dream that never came true, a dream that I gave up on, a dream that broke my heart. The fluttering became frantic as I opened the lid wider. As the opening grew larger they started to fly. The fluttering I had heard were bats. Freed from the box they flew in all directions, these bats from my box in the attic. They are my dreams, my stories, and my book. Scattering all around they hang in the air, reading like chapter titles from a bad novel.

The fluttering in my head has stopped now. No longer dark, dusty, and full of cobwebs my mind is clear and bat free. At 51, I have released my bats from the box in my attic. No more denying my dreams of writing; no more bats in my belfry. After all if I don’t live my dreams, who will? If I don’t write my stories, who will? If I don’t write my book, who will?