We go to grandma's attic, filled with this and that galore,
For treasure troves await us when we walk beyond its door.

The sun shines through the windows centered in the papered walls:
It lights the way to sailing ships and fragile china dolls;

The rocking horse our grandpa rode and galloped to-and-fro;
And steamer trunks of dress-up clothes from eras long ago;

Toy spinning tops, and pirate swords, old photos, black and white-
And as we play, our grandma's eyes are shining very bright!

But in a flash, we're all grown up, the treasures there to stay,
And grandma's hair, once golden brown, has faded into gray.

Oh! Years have passed too quickly, and the attic sits so still...
And only spiders play here, for the children never will.

The heavy dust and cobwebs are too much for us to bear;
The view from grandma's attic now a blank and vacant stare.

 

Dedicated to those whose minds and families are affected by Alzheimer's.