Treasures, memories and secrets.
They all abide here.
Left to languish in a fine mist of dust.
What stories these walls could tell.
Fragile love letters.
Entwined histories, tied in a scarlet ribbon.
Now for someone else to read, to ponder.
The faint, still lingering scent of lavender.
Petals: pressed between pages.
Dolls in their finery.
Dresses, trimmed in satin and lace.
Delicate linens, lovingly embroidered.
Jewelry from star-lit nights.
Faded photos of smiling, hopeful faces.
Dainty, rose-pink teacups.
Tarnished, tiny spoons.
A book of Grandma’s favourite recipes.
Conjuring up her kitchen.
Reading between the lines.
The old attic.
A restful place on hurried days.
Transported from a sunny afternoon.
To another place and time.
Communing with the spirits.
Some, still left behind.
Photo courtesy of Flickr