The loft is a place where – #fridayfiction
After Ophelia snaps the kitchen light off, she walks to the back hall and listens for sounds of sleep from the girl’s room. In the still of night she can hear most anything— grass growing, a cloud moving and, yes, even the sound of her new guest dreaming. Once she hears the soft whisper of sleep she turns and starts toward the staircase.
She takes the stairs one at a time, slowly moving up and onto each step, first with her right leg, then bringing up the left. It is an arduous task because of the arthritis in her left knee, but Ophelia is not ready to abandon the loft. It is where she stores her finest treasures. It is closer to heaven, and it’s where memories are the sweetest.
It matters not that the oak boards of the floor are rough in spots and the whitewash of the walls has now faded into nothingness. The loft is a place where she can close her eyes and memories come without bidding. On a warm summer night when the windows are open and sounds float on a breeze, she can touch her hand to the Bible or the snow globe and hear the voices of children playing in the yard. How sweet they are. How young and unsuspecting.