In an old cardboard box in the attic… personal notes sent on cold mornings, rusted nails, paper clips, a gold high school graduation ring, pencil stubs, a chipped red checker piece, but mostly a collection of long-lost memories. The dusty box sits beside a cracked antique mirror, a single bed, a dented in trumpet from the 1930s, boxes of esoteric books, magazines, grocery sacks of old games: monopoly, chess, clue, and on the bottom, an old picture album of known and unknown faces… unfinished: The forgotten memories inside, covered with countless years. The things glistened with newness a long time ago when those who lived in this old house still breathed, laughed and loved, now only an empty silence. Life, so brief, so taken for granted. Then, in a sudden moment, everything faded, and what was can only be found in old cardboard boxes in attics, and far less often, in the memories of those few who are still alive to remember.
For more on James Piatt, please see our Authors page.
Amarillo Bay 