Sorry, this isn't a poem.

Every once in a while, I like to write a short story. There's some experiences I go through that call for a simple vent session. Concluding of the five followers I now obtain, I feel comfortable exploiting my inner struggles to the world of bloggers. Although, I am aware a few eyes will meet this page and learn something new about myself. This archive of passion is my one safe oasis, knowingly I put all thoughts, raw or refined, on this blog. A few minutes ago, I walked into my attic. This attic is no ordinary storage room, but more so a safe hold of memories. In this attic, you have the best view of my house. Yes, it's blazing in the summer and freezing in the winter, but that's what makes it delicate. When my dad was alive, he used this attic as his work desk. It is small and cramped, but somehow he managed (as my father always did), to find a desk that had the exact measurements of the nook in the wall. This desk was filled with treasures. Before my mom got re-married and practically dumped out our entire house, all of his favorite collectibles lived in those drawers. He would use the beams in the walls as shelves, hanging up his Duke Energy "25 years of service" complimentary pens- he never was one for change. In the very bottom drawer, behind his coin box, you could find pictures of him and all the pretty girls he dated in High School. In the top left drawer, you could find a few lighters, those of which he used to light his cigars- the ones he smoked out the window so my mom couldn't smell. In the center drawer, you would find a variation of blank cards. If there's one thing to know about my dad, it is that like he liked to give cards. They were the cards my brother and I would sporadically wake up to on our beds, the cards that he stuck on the dash of our car to make us a little later for school, the cards that refrained our anger when we found out he ate the last Popsicle, and the cards he always gave my mom the morning after a big fight. This attic held a wonder of things. Although it sits empty now, I will always remember peeping my head in as a little girl, hoping he would let me sit on his knee for a few minutes and gaze at all the amazing work he did under that single lamp light. I might be able to let him go, I might be able to let myself move on, but I'll never move past the rush of honor I get when I stand where such a passionate man stood.