In a hot dusty attic on holiday in France, I found a box. There was a hole in the attic roof and the five pm sun blared in and the dust motes swam patiently by.
Why was I up there when the cool river called me for a last swim? The second I stepped up the last rung of the ladder I was drenched in sweat.
I suppose I was curious. There was a thunderstorm during dinner two days ago and water dripped all over the floor and the baby crawled through it and got filthy and I looked up and said ‘there must be a hole up there’ and then forgot all about it because we had to tidy up.
But now I’m here and there’s this wooden box. And as I lift it, all kinds of things, light and heavy and paper and jangling, are moving about inside.
naomiwritingstuff 