My eyes began to flutter and I could see the attic stairs ascending to the great dark threshold above me. As I sat up my body ached, and I could feel the lump on the back of my head growing by the minute.
So, I did fall down the stairs. And that whole thing about my grandmother’s kitchen must have been some sort of dream. It was probably brought on by the thought of going through all the old stuff in the attic.
I stood up, and found that despite a few bruises, I was okay. No broken bones. I could be thankful for that. I folded up the accordion stairs and raised the attic door. That was quite enough excitement for one day. But once the attic doors were raised, I saw the suitcase again.
It was awkwardly splayed on the floor, like a book laying face down. Although I had my reservations about having anything to do with it at this point, I couldn’t just leave it in my parent’s hallway. I reached toward it, as though it were a rattlesnake, fully bracing myself for lightning to strike me at the moment I touched it. But once again, nothing happened.
I took a deep breath, and sighed, relieved. And of course, I felt incredibly silly. It was just an old suitcase.
As my blood pressure lowered, and I felt myself return to my regularly scheduled practicality, I casually flipped the suitcase over to close it properly, but when I lifted the suitcase up, every hair on the back of my neck stood on end.
Underneath the suitcase, sitting on the floor, was the yellow bowl from my grandmother’s kitchen.
I began bargaining with myself. Perhaps the bowl had been inside the suitcase all along? I hadn’t looked inside prior to bringing it downstairs. That had to be it. I was certain that the whole experience had been a dream.
Despite my self-assurance, a tiny inkling of doubt was nagging at me. So, I plucked the bowl off the floor and headed to the living room to speak with my mother. She would be able to tell me more about the bowl, I was sure.
