Travels In My Mother’s Attic

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Abstract

">They are a part of us.I want to go through the attic with my mother. I want her to show me what to keep, what to throw away, what to add. I want her to tell me what was useful and what wasn’t, what worked and what didn’t. But she says no. Says it’s in the past and she’s already been through it. She’s glad for the way she did it but doesn’t want to do it again. I won’t accept this. I must persist.I know I need her knowledge.I sneak into the attic at night in my dreams. She greets me at the door, hands me the key; tells me things and I remember, try to understand.She tells me I ask too many questions when I haven’t yet begun. Tells me to accept and still I fight. I tell her I want her to give me her ammunition. If she’s not going to use it why should it go to waste and become useless, gathering dust on a shelf in someone else’s attic?<

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/p>I am a nuisance.I know. This thing she bore that won’t let her be — needs to know why. And yet there is a part of her wants to tell. The part that allows me inside her dreams, stands outside the door of the attic, waiting — holding the silver cord. The part which dusts me off and feeds me when I climb back out. Without it I would end my search.Since she won’t come in with me, I bring her things I find and she looks at them later, alone — sometimes crying, sometimes laughing — but always alone.After years of searching, I know that this what I need to fix.Only I don’t know what it is; this thing which keeps us alone. This is what I need to find — to change. Until we can walk into the attic together, in the world outside our dreams, I shall not end my search.©Theresa C. Dintino</article></body>

The shared experiences and inherited memories of mothers through time

Cueva de las Manos, Argentina 13,000–9,500 years old

In my mother’s attic I walk at night, see what’s there, shop around. We own many of the same things. Many we don’t want to own. They were given to us. Hand-me-downs from other mothers’ mothers that we are not ready to throw away. Feeling it is our duty to preserve and keep them, we stuff them on back shelves. Yet, they haunt us, cluttering the place — gathering dust. They are not useful except to look at and most times that’s too painful. So we tuck them away, try to ignore them, pretend they’re not there. But they are always there.

They are a part of us.

I want to go through the attic with my mother. I want her to show me what to keep, what to throw away, what to add. I want her to tell me what was useful and what wasn’t, what worked and what didn’t. But she says no. Says it’s in the past and she’s already been through it. She’s glad for the way she did it but doesn’t want to do it again. I won’t accept this. I must persist.

I know I need her knowledge.

I sneak into the attic at night in my dreams. She greets me at the door, hands me the key; tells me things and I remember, try to understand.

She tells me I ask too many questions when I haven’t yet begun. Tells me to accept and still I fight. I tell her I want her to give me her ammunition. If she’s not going to use it why should it go to waste and become useless, gathering dust on a shelf in someone else’s attic?

I am a nuisance.

I know. This thing she bore that won’t let her be — needs to know why. And yet there is a part of her wants to tell. The part that allows me inside her dreams, stands outside the door of the attic, waiting — holding the silver cord. The part which dusts me off and feeds me when I climb back out. Without it I would end my search.

Since she won’t come in with me, I bring her things I find and she looks at them later, alone — sometimes crying, sometimes laughing — but always alone.

After years of searching, I know that this what I need to fix.

Only I don’t know what it is; this thing which keeps us alone. This is what I need to find — to change. Until we can walk into the attic together, in the world outside our dreams, I shall not end my search.