I love “attic” museums.
Small places where they exhibit
the bits of peoples’ lives.
Where the obscure becomes important.
Some would say
“all they have is trash.”
Attics are where you find the bits of memories.
Where you stumble across the forgotten
Kept because it was precious.
Southerners have an affinity for holding on –
We want the bits of history
To tell us who our people were.
So we will know who we are.
We keep stuff – for generations.
A photograph, a piece of lace, a spoon,
Books, oh, my yes, books
Letters, pens, linens, pots and pans.
And on, and on, and on.
We guard them.
They are us.
Our roots, our connections.
How can you know yourself
Without your stuff?
That’s where the stories are.