This is what Charlotte writes.

09.28.07

Welcome to the magical mystery tour. Step inside a record album. Leave behind all that is today and tomorrow and join me in yesterday.

I’m standing in the old attic, my head barely brushing the spiderwebs that hang, gracefully luxurious, from the rafters. Surrounding me, in piles of boxes and bins and in bags are all the mementos of my youth, of the youth of my parents, and of my parents’ parents. When I came up here as a kid this place was my dreamhouse, my secret fort, and then, later, the hub of operations for my international espionage organization. Now more grown up I see it for what it really is, which is a collection of junk that has been gathering dust and dead sal bugs for far too many years. I have to clean it out because we’re selling the house, moving out, moving on. Away from the small town that we’ve always known, and into the city.

The old grandfather clock in the corner is, miraculously, still ticking, and its hands tell me that I have only a few hours before the kids show up and the cooking will have to start and I will have lost another Sunday, so I decide to get started. I have to breathe carefully, to disturb as little dust as possible.

The first box is labelled “Sarah Kate” which is my mother. The handwriting on the lid is my grandmother’s, elegant and neat. I have no idea of the year. Dropping to a squat I open it, and gasp with delight at what is inside. Folded on top is a t-shirt that I recognize, not from an actual aquantenance but from looking through the old albums. It was my mom’s favourite, possibly because she made it, and possibly because it has “The Beatles” emblazoned accross the chest. Or possibly, I realise as I lift it from the box, because it is made of the softest material I have ever felt.

Under the shirt the box is filled with photographs, notebooks, and record albums. It’s my mother’s high school years all contained in one cardboard cube. Suddenly the shortness of my time becomes irrelevant. I open one of the notebooks and begin to read.

The clock is chiming 5 when I emerge, trembling. The sounds of the family are echoing up to reach me but it takes a moment for me to sort out the voices and remember where I am. I’m not ready to go back downstairs yet, but I know that I have to. Before I do, however, I get up, stretching my now numb legs, and hobble to the corner of the attic where I stow my journals and secrets. Selecting one notebook I place it amongst my mother’s, and then trade my tshirt with the one I found, folding mine and replacing it inside. The lid goes back on and I head for the stairwell.

The next time I’m up there I probably won’t be alone; some one will have discovered my “lack of progress” and will insist on helping. But that’ll be OK.

And when I step into the kitchen I can hear Magical Mystery Tour playing from my niece’s room. “Nice tshirt,” my brother tells me. I smile. He has no idea.