"Grandma, what are you bringing me up here for?"
The small boy's auburn hair bounced slightly as he followed the elder up to the attic.
"There is something your grandfather had a long time ago, and I've been waiting for the right time to give it to you. Now that he's gone..."
She didn't have to finish the sentence.
They had reached the attic, a place of mothballs and old trunks and picture frames and mirrors and wardrobes and golden light filtering through the dusty oval window.
Grandma Twist picked up something from on top of a suitcase plastered with stickers from the world over. The boy took it, wiping the dust off.
"It's a book," he said, half disappointed, half wonderous.
"Not just a book; your grandfather's journal. Open it," Grandma Twist replied.
Stephen did. And poetry filled the pages, leaving a warmth in the air that wasn't there before.
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This thread is where I will post all my poetry, unedited. If you comment I will shoot a doughnut at you. That is a good thing.
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