Some things never change.
WINNIE
Dust and Memories
Pawhuska, Oklahoma
8 AM
"We must be prepared to release the life we envisioned in order to embrace the life that awaits us."
– Joseph Campbell
***
The attic was Pops' idea, which meant it was non-negotiable.
"Winnie girl," he’d said over breakfast, after Beau had already headed out to check on the horses (early, without me needing to drag him, which was becoming a disturbing trend). "I need you to go through the attic today. Been meanin' to clean it out for years, but never got around to it. Got too much old stuff up there collectin' dust and takin' up space."
I’d looked up from my eggs, immediately suspicious. Pops rarely cared about clutter. "What kinda stuff?"
"Old furniture, boxes... your Nana’s things I never had the heart to go through. Just... memories." His voice had gone soft on that last word, the way it always did when he talked about Nana, a gentle reverence that made my own chest ache. "Thought maybe it's time to sort through it. Keep what matters, donate the rest. Make some room."
Which is how I found myself standing at the bottom of the attic stairs at two in the afternoon, staring up at the pull-down ladder like it had personally insulted my ancestors.
I hated the attic. Not because it was creepy or haunted—though the floorboards did groan like dying whales—but because it was a time capsule of grief I wasn't ready to open. It was full of Nana’s life. Her clothes, her books, the quilts she’d stitched by hand, all the little pieces of her that Pops couldn't bear to part with after she died. Going up there felt like ripping a scab off a wound that had just barely healed over.
"Need help?"
I turned to find Beau leaning in the doorway, sweaty and dirt-streaked from whatever he’d been doing outside. His hair was plastered to his forehead under his cowboy hat, and his t-shirt was clinging in all the right—and wrong—places.
"Pops wants me to clean out the attic," I said, dodging his question because admitting I needed help felt like weakness. "Sort through old stuff."
"Want company?"
I almost said no. Almost told him I could handle it myself, that I didn't need a city boy interfering with something so personal. But the truth was, the thought of facing that silence alone felt suffocating. Heavy.
"Yeah, actually. That’d be good."
His eyebrows shot up in genuine surprise—probably because I rarely accepted help without a signed affidavit. But he didn't comment. He just pulled off his hat, wiped his forehead with his sleeve, and followed me up the creaky ladder into the stifling darkness above.
The attic was exactly as I remembered: cramped, sweltering, and packed floor-to-ceiling with the detritus of three generations. Afternoon light streamed through a small, grime-streaked window at the far end, illuminating dust motes that danced in the stagnant air like tiny ghosts.
"Jesus," Beau breathed, coughing lightly. "How much stuff is up here?"
"Decades worth. Pops and Nana never threw anything away if it had sentimental value. Or potential value. Or just... existed." I grabbed a box labeledKitchen - 1985and started toward the ladder. "We’re supposed to sort through everything. Keep what matters, donate the rest."
"That’s... vague criteria."
"Yep. Welcome to the Jameson filing system."
We developed a rhythm: I’d go through boxes, making snap judgments to keep from overthinking, and Beau would haul whatever I designated as "donate" down to the truck or pile "keep" items in the corner. It was slow, hot, dirty work. Within twenty minutes, we were both covered in gray dust and sweating through our clothes.
"How is it hotter up here than outside?" Beau complained, pulling his shirt away from his chest and flapping it. "We’re literally being baked alive. I’m pretty sure I’m sous-vide-ing in my own sweat."
"It’s an attic in Oklahoma in June. What’d you expect? Central air and a mint on your pillow?"
"I expected reasonable temperatures! This is inhumane! This is a violation of basic human rights!"
