Summers of my childhood were sometimes spent in the big countryside manor of my grandparents. Uncles and aunts, cousins and rooms more than we could count. Days followed days in the way they only do for a child. We excavated the dungeons of the basement, climbed the apple trees and went bathing when we could.
We were always given a different room when we came. Sometimes it was the blue room at the end of the corridor at other times I slept alone in the chamber behind the kitchen, but nothing could compare to the extra room in the attic where my uncle had to fix a rope ladder to be used as an emergency exit.
To get the that room you had to cross a vast dark attic filled with dolls with staring eyes, old books, my grandparents clothes and a scent of pine and dust. In summer the planks were warm and smooth against my warm feet as I crossed the open attic running to the the room. When I closed the door I was safe from the voices of the house, perched alone in the cabin of a ship I could dive into the adventures of the Famous Five. Ever since these summers, I have a recurring dream that I live in a house where rooms follow room to be excavated, searching for the safety of a hidden chamber where I could be alone with my books.
cumulus’ shadow —
willow warbler grows silent
for the first raindrop
I’m getting back slowly to writing with Lilian’s prompt on an old room from my past at dVerse Haibun Monday.