It was one of those days; there was nothing to do.
It was rainy and cold and I had the flu.
I'd played with my dollhouse, had tea with the cat
playing dress-up lady in Annie's old hat.
I'd finished reading my new Nancy Drew,
even cleaned my room. . . underneath my bed too!
I'd done all of my homework, it lay neat on my shelf,
I just didn't know what to do with myself.
Then my Grandmother Annie said with a smile,
"Let's go up to the attic awhile.
There's plenty to do up there, treasures to find
amidst the memories, the relics of time."

I'd never been in the attic before.
Mom had said it was dangerous, and the floor
wasn't safe and we could be hurt
and besides, it was dusty and she didn't want dirt
all over us and then tracked through the house
and last but not least, maybe a mouse
was living up there and there he should stay--
up in the attic is the Shadows Grey.

As hand and hand we climbed the stairs
I wondered aloud if ghosts were up there.
"We did have a ghost once in '23
a gentle spirit named Emily.
Grandpa said she was only the wind.
(But you'll note he said she, so she must have been.
I love it up here, it's my special place."
Annie said as we slowed our pace.
Out of her pocket, Annie took a large key;
elaborate with tarnished filagree.
She unlocked the door and push it wide,
but I just stood there and peered inside.
All I could see were scary shaped shadows;
blacks and greys and indigos.
Then Annie lit a candle bright
and the shadows retreated in the flickering light.

A multitude of boxes were stacked on the floor
and a cobweb or two clung limp to the door.
A warped Brentwood rocker by the window lay
near gossamer curtains of a long ago day.
A dappled hobby-horse worn with wear
although missing one eye, still a noble old mare.
A bridle of silver, a braided rein
draped around a mouse-chewed mane.
A cubby-hole desk with a feathered quill
near a lead glass window with paw-printed sill.
High button shoes (Imagine! No laces!)
A turn-around doll with two different faces!

Annie said as she sat in the old rocking chair,
"Let me tell you about that old trunk over there.
It's pushed under the eave, close to the wall
behind those boxes and that soccer ball.
Your Grandmother's Grandfather's trunk crossed the Irish Sea
Leaving Kilkenny County from Carrick-on-Sur
in a freighter named the Miranda Leigh,
across the Atlantic to a country free from prosecution and tyranny.
Annie told me to look inside
so I unlatched the lid and opened it wide.
Lengths of muslin, yellowed with age
wrapped around a Bible with crumbling page.
A cameo pin of melon and cream,
a cure-all tonic called Dr. Luke's Dream.
A souvenir from the County Faire,
and a IOU from one Cornelius McNair.
A pair of satin pantaloons,
a tarnished set of silver spoons.
A soldier's cap of faded blue,
a silver medal for honor true.
A North Adams Transcript, a three star edition
accounting the latest Yankee mission.
The headline read, "Rebels on the Run!"
The paper was dated August 4th, '61.
A bridal gown of satin and lace,
a wedding band in a velvet case.
Blanched and shriveled rose bouquet,
a parchment certificate declaring the day
that Bridget Quine and Peter McFee
became husband and wife in '93.

On slender chain, a heart-shaped locket
entangled with a watch one kept in a pocket.
Be-ribboned lock of ebony hair
near a daguerreotype of a maiden fair.
A wooden doll in a calico gown,
a wedding ring quilt filled with down.

At the very bottom was a written note
"To all of my heirs," the author wrote..
"There is many a treasure of silver and gold
and many have fought for a moment to hold,
but a far better treasure is one of the heart;
a giving of memories, of ones self a part.
By the time you are reading this, many years hence
I'll be but a memory, my era past tense.
Please add to these treasures in this well traveled chest.
Remember and cherish. May you pathways be blessed."
That missive signed by Sir Jonathan McFee
survived two hundred years before coming to me.
Generations had read his will
and added their treasures, the trunk to fill.
No museum will ever hold
more precious treasure than Sir Jonathan's gold.

My Grandmother's Grandfather's Trunk
at the top of the attic stairs
his a secret room through a hole in the wall
that nobody knew was there
except Annie, of course, and she told me
how the slaves used to hide there back in '53.
She pushed aside the trunk and revealed
a dusty hole that had once been sealed
to protect the fates of the people inside
from those who searched and killed and lied.
We crawled along feeling a bit like moles
tunneling through the dry, dusty hole.
We came to a room between to walls
that I had never noticed was there at all.
A secret room, tiny and dank
full of dour memories and blankets that stank.
There were painstaking messages scratched on the wall;
heartbreaking images were raised by their scrawls.
A man named Dobson and his wife, Becky-Sue
were searching for their children, aged three and two.
Another man had lost his wife, had anyone seen her?
Last seen in Kentucky, near the town of Raveena.
Two sisters had, happily. found their brother,
but, had anyone, anywhere, seen their mother?
A baby was born in this cramped little room;
a breath of new life in this grave-like tomb.
Left behind on the floor in a corner dark
were shackles and chains with an owner's mark.
Slavery's fetters now left behind
worn smooth from wear and strain of mind.
Annie and I sat there, we could hear the rain
and tried to, but couldn't, imagine their pain.
I was glad to crawl back to the attic and light
musing on history and the slaves cruel plight.

Annie's gone now these past many years
and of sorrow and laughter, I've shed many tears.
There's a parking lot now at 12 Langford Place,
yet neither time nor progress will ever erase
my visit with Annie to our family's past,
that special day shall forever last.
I still have her trunk, Annie's last gift and it's still one of my pleasures through its treasures to sift
with Annie's great-grandchildren cuddled close to me
wide-eyed as they learn of their history.

Robin Berndt

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