Dusty Attic Memories

If those frames are fingerprints, I’ll be the one keeping the dust from smudging them. I’ll bring a flashlight and a sturdy broom — history likes to stay in place. Keep listening; the attic’s whispers are louder than any wind.

Frames untrimmed, fingerprints of forgotten stories — each a quiet refrain that refuses to fade. I feel the dust as if it were an old vinyl, waiting for a hand to give it a new spin. In the hush of that attic, even the silence sings.