Bear in the Attic
Where the forgotten waits to be found.
Carmen came home for Thanksgiving a few days early, and the last thing she expected was to be asked to help clean the attic.
They were eating minestrone soup in the kitchen, her mother’s specialty.
“Your uncle is coming tomorrow,” she said. “He wants to take a few boxes of his out of the attic. I haven’t been up there in years! Can you help me clean it out? I need you to take what’s yours.”
Carmen nodded, but at the same time, she felt a slight pang in the gut.
It wasn’t fear, but she felt some memories start to bubble up to the surface. Memories she hadn’t considered in years.
She hadn’t been up there since she was eighteen, right before she left college.
Why, at thirty-nine years old, did she need to go up there now?
She didn’t voice her question out loud. Instead, she grabbed a flashlight and followed her mother upstairs.
--
She opened the attic door and inhaled some dust. She coughed and her eyes teared up at the same time.
Old clothes, forgotten childhood art, dusty furniture.
The small window in the corner was covered in a film of grime giving the attic an eerie cast.
She spotted the old rocking chair in the corner as soon as her eyes adjusted. It was angled in front of the tiny window.
Carmen had forgotten the chair existed.
“Your grandmother used to sit up here in that chair,” her mother said while she grazed her eyes across the room, “before she couldn’t make it up the stairs any longer.”
Carmen didn’t answer. Something about the chair made her chest tighten.
They sorted through the boxes looking for the ones her uncle needed. They found old costumes, forgotten craft supplies, holiday decorations, and memories stored from three generations who lived in this house.
Carmen’s attention kept pulling to the corner of the attic – to the rocking chair.
Something tugged at her, a memory that felt like a small child’s finger, poking her on the shoulder.
Her mother looked at her with a question in her eyes but didn’t say anything.
--
When her mother ran downstairs to get some trash bags, Carmen was alone with her thoughts and memories.
She walked over to the rocking chair that had compelled her when she walked in. She needed to figure out why the chair kept nudging to her.
As she sat, her foot kicked a box. The lid flipped open.
Inside it were some items from her childhood. A few drawings. Her favorite crayon set. A broken plastic bracelet. Her favorite snow globe.
Then, at the very bottom, she saw it. Mr. Snuggles, her favorite stuffed bear.
Her eyes filled with a few tears as a slight laugh escaped her.
“Mr. Snuggles! I thought I lost you.”
She pulled him out of the box without being careful, and its arm fell off onto her hand.
This must be why he ended up in the attic. Poor thing was hanging on by a thread. Literally.
--
Her mother climbed back up the stairs. “Carmen, what did you find?” she asked.
She didn’t say anything, but she held the bear up.
Her mother gasped and said, “Oh.”
“We thought he was lost, but he ended up in here?” Carmen said, incredulous.
Her mom shrugged and said, “I guess so.”
“She needs fixing. I’ll take him downstairs. Maybe there’s still time to enjoy him!”
--
The next night, after the Thanksgiving meal was done and everyone else went home, Carmen went up to her old bedroom and her mom’s sewing kit.
She got to work.
The room was small, familiar, and comforting. The perfect setting to work on the repair.
She started with the arm that fell off in the attic and worked her way around the bear, tears falling on the bear as she worked.
She poked her finger with the needle a few times, but she barely noticed.
Carmen thought of all the moments she had with this bear, imagining his adventures, telling him her secrets.
She whispered, “There you go, I can fix you. You’re going to be okay!”
She found herself telling the bear her secrets. Relationships came and gone. The family she never fully bult for herself. The man who wanted to be her husband. Her resistance. Their argument.
She looked at Mr. Snuggles and knew what she had to do.
--
After the weekend was over, she went home. She brought Mr. Snuggles with her, climbed into bed, and called her him.
“I know what I want now.”
About the Creator
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More stories from Kathy Tsoukalas and writers in Fiction and other communities.
Free Loveseat
Every other night, I notice the variation of kipple that loiters—the many monuments littering the city—of every single different kind of leather chair, plush recliner, and loveseat, and Art Deco sofa, many of which end up abandoned, deteriorating the crumbling, and most definitely paper-thin, sidewalks of the street. They rest discarded, like departed souls, or perhaps, the poor souls of Black folk, neglected by the bluest of eyes. Of all of the rubbish, chairs are my fancy. There’s a lot of character in the shape of a chair; the subtle curves especially remind me of the night women who stand on the curb.
By Thomas Bryant6 days ago in Fiction
Comments (2)
Congrats on ts-love how the teddy is so healing. I too cried when i sewed my teddy's arm
The attic is beautifully depicted as a place where forgotten objects, like Mr. Snuggles, trigger crucial, needed memories. It is wonderful that the simple act of repairing the bear helped Carmen mend her own emotional knots and finally gain the clarity to make that important phone call. Finding those forgotten pieces truly led her to a new beginning. Congratulations on your Top Story!