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THE ATTIC
Possibly only a dreamy child can fully grasp-or wants to-the difference between a family storeroom, an attic, and the pub¬lic secondhand shop, and perhaps the difference is important only to herself. But all old junk even when it has belonged to strangers, must vibrate in the imagination of sensitive observers with many exquisite overtones. If the junk consists of objects once loved, used, worn, or made by those of one's own blood, they assume an inescapable and tender significance Even when the object is ludicrous, one's laughter is gentle.
A child wandering among such outcast but still surving fragments of other times, other lives, sees herself not as an isolated figure, shelterless and undirected, but as a partaker, a marcher in a long processional that has passed under this, her own roof. Death is diminished for her, and life enlarged. For better or for worse, the incidents of her own hearth reach out and merge in the events of her country's history. She comes to have both a respect and a disregard for Time that are some¬what Chinese. She knows that the past and the future are closely integrated, yet as distinctly separate as the two sides of a me¬dal, and that her appreciation of the present is measured by the strenght of her desire to hold that medal in the hollow of her hand, to scrutinize it, to remember, and to dream.
And so the attic in my grandfather's house became more than just another room in the house. It was the very breath and body of the whole eventful rooftree. Like a family memory-book, it contained a keepsake for everybody, from someone's old doll to someone else's rusty sword. There was a bride's bouquet crum¬bling to dust in a box, and near by, where it had been set on a shelf neatly tied up in a package, was the groom's hat, the crushable kind, and I was endlessly amused pushing it open and smashing it shut.