Another little drabble, a snippet of writing about childhood.
There had been a closet at the back of his grandma’s bedroom that he’s always been drawn to when he was little. It was a closet rarely opened, so when he crawled inside that dark warmth he was assailed with a multitude of smells; dust, mothballs and old fur from the coats that had been left in there, covered up in tissue paper.
As far as he knew, this was the place grandma put all the things she never wore, after grandpa died, because they were things he had given her and it only made her sad to look at them. Yet she was too fond of them to throw them away. For hours he could sit in there, touching the fabrics, his own secret base away from home.
He had read all about the land of Narnia, his grandmother had read those books to him before he learned how to make out the letters himself and early on he had been convinced that his grandmother’s closet must be another portal to that fabled land. He just had to figure out the right things to say to make it open.
By the time he realized how silly that was it and how there was no real Narnia to be found, he was too old to be bothered. By that time his grandmother had gotten quite ill and there was talk of moving her into a place where she would be safe and looked after.
That was not what made him the most upset though, it was the casual talk of emptying out that special closet and selling all the things inside. Not only would there be no more grandma’s house to visit, but he would also lose that closet with its special smells and the old fabrics, memories of happier days in his grandmother’s life.
Suddenly he decided that he wanted to be a guardian of that and after much protests and arguments with his mother they reached a compromise.
In a corner of the attic of their house they could hang the content of his grandma’s closet, where the memories and the smells, those remnants of his childhood could remain for as long as they could.