The Lady in the Attic

The Lady in the Attic

I was 10 years old. My world ended the day she left. Cancer, a silent thief, stole her laughter, warmth, and love from me, leaving an empty silence in our small house that would echo throughout my life louder than any storm.

After she died, I was afraid to go to bed and fall asleep for fear I would never wake up. Death became an unwanted but daily companion. I didn’t understand why this terrible thing had happened to me.

I was the kid in school who didn’t have a mom. The odd and sad little boy whose mom died.  I was pitied. I was odd.

I hated to go to bed after my mom died. My bedroom became a room of memories and tears.  Once a comforting place, it became a nightly descent into a horrible, unimaginable sadness.

Then, a few months after my mom died, the dreams came. Every night, as I fretfully drifted off to sleep, I was drawn to the attic stairs in my dreams. The old wooden steps creaked beneath my feet, each groan an aching sound in the otherwise silent house—the silent house of my subconscious.

The attic, in my waking hours, was a dusty realm of outdated, forgotten Christmas decorations and boxes of old clothes and photo albums. It was a place I rarely ventured. But in my dreams, it held a strange allure. A familiar place that I couldn’t resist.

As I climbed to the top of old wooden stairs in my dreams, the attic was bathed in a soft, ethereal glow that seemed to emanate from nowhere… and everywhere. In the attic was a lady. She was there every night,  sitting on an old trunk draped with an old, faded tablecloth.

Her form was familiar, but her features were blurred as if I were looking through a veil of mist. I could make out the curve of her shoulders,  and I could see her hands resting calmly in her lap. But I could not see her face. It was out of focus and veiled, blurred in the shadows in the dreams of a little boy.

Yet, despite those blurred shadows in the dimly lit attic, I felt an inexplicable warmth and comfort in her presence. I would walk towards her, my dream legs heavy and barely able to move.

She would speak to me, her voice a soothing melody, like the gentle rustling of leaves in a summer breeze. She never spoke of my mom or my loss. Instead, she told me stories – tales of hope and bravery and of faraway lands where we could travel with just a thought. But mostly she spoke of the never-ending power of love.

I would listen intently, and sometimes I would cry – my dream-tears silently tracing paths down my cheeks. Her words comforted my wounded spirit and the emptiness inside a little boy who lost his mom.

The lady in the attic was a temporary respite from the constant ache, fear, and emptiness in my chest.

Every night, as I fell asleep, I would climb the creaky stairs to the attic. I would tell the lady in the attic about my day, how my dad would try so hard to cook our meals without much success, the empty space at the table, the sadness of a little boy who was the boy at school without a mom.

The lady in the attic would always listen patiently. She showed deep compassion and understanding. We became friends, and I could not wait to go to bed and fall asleep and climb those steps to the attic in my dreams.

Unfailingly, night after night, the dream repeated with unwavering consistency. The creaking stairs, the softly lit attic, the lady in the attic with the veiled face, her comforting voice, her stories, and her warmth and love.

My dreams were a nightly pilgrimage to a place where my sorrow and emptiness were less painful and my loneliness a little more bearable. I looked forward to going to sleep and to the dreams that came. I loved the time I spent with the enigmatic lady in the attic. It was the only place I didn’t hurt or feel alone and odd.

Months passed, each day I was the sad little boy who watched his mom die in agony of cancer… a memory that would never get better or ever fade, who each night looked forward to the dream of the warmth and love of the lady in the attic.

Then one night, everything changed.  I ascended the familiar attic stairs, but something felt different. The ethereal glow seemed warmer, the air lighter, and I felt a sense of profound familiarity. Things seemed so clear and less shrouded in a dreamy mist.

As I reached the top of the stairs that night, the woman sat in her usual spot, but this time, the blurry edges softened, the indistinct features of her face sharpened. I saw the gentle curve of her smile, the familiar love in her eyes. 

And then, her eyes met mine. Not the veiled, indistinct gaze of the lady in the attic, but a look of pure, unconditional love, a look I knew so well.

The mist completely vanished, and there she was.

Tears welled in my eyes, tears that felt both sorrowful and joyous. I ran to her, my small arms wrapping around her familiar form. She held me tightly, her embrace as warm and comforting as any I remembered.

“Don’t worry, angel,” she whispered, her familiar. “Be brave and be a good boy for me. And remember how much I love you. I won’t be able to come to you in your dreams anymore, but I will see you again, I promise. And we will spend time together. Remember, angel,  I will always love you.”

She didn’t need to tell stories that night. She just held me. I felt the familiar scent of her lavender soap, the soft touch of her hands, and her arms around me.

The sharp edges of my grief softened. I understood then. The mysterious lady in the attic, the comforting voice in the darkness, was and had always been my mom. She found a way to reach me, to soothe my broken heart in the quiet sanctuary of my dreams. 

It was a testament to a love that even death could not extinguish. The attic, once a dusty place for things of the past, had become a nightly meeting place where a grieving little boy could find solace in the embrace of the lady in the attic.

The lady in the attic never leaves my thoughts or my heart.