I remember that at night I would wait for Anita to come up with me, for the narrow stairway that led to the attic was poorly lit, and if alone, I imagined it rampant with scary creatures of every kind. Those few times when I had to climb the stairs at night alone, I carefully walked the entire way up sideways, with my back against the wall, so that no monster could sneak up on me from behind. In the daytime, though, when Anita and Lawrence and Joe were in school, and Mamma and my Zia Maria were busy with their many chores, I would delight in going to my special place alone, to sit in the girls' bedroom on the hardwood floor, under the narrow little window, where I would play for hours with my paper dolls, or, better still, would act out exotic adventures I created in my head. Then would the attic expand to all sorts of magical places outside my narrow little world!
In the late spring and summer months, the attic was almost unbearably hot, but that didn't stop me from seeking out its refuge. Mamma would be upset to find me there.
"You'll suffocate in this heat!" she warned.
But I loved it best then. I liked feeling the drops of perspiration alongside my face. I liked the martyrdom of bearing my suffering stoically, for throughout my childhood, I was unjustly labeled with the reputation of crying at the least bit of pain, and I resented it.
Were I somehow to go back now to my special place, I know long-buried memories would flow over me in great abundance, and I know I would be able to write without stop, thoughts and words spilling over each other, fighting for place on the page.