Mary Jo

Decades have passed since I was last in this house. The door is ajar. The fresh smell of rain overlays the familiar, particular odor of old oil paint and dry wood. I start up the stairs, my eyes on the square in the ceiling. I had doubted it's existence when it beckoned in my dreams,unremembered.
I swung the ladder up and planted it firmly, ascended, pushing open the hatch, and looked over the edge. What I saw was fabulous.