John begins shortly after they leave. He climbs the stairs to the attic. The smell of mildew on wood greets him immediately. It is an attic like most, a treasure trove of junk and mementos from times long since past.

     His feet move gingerly across the creaky floor boards to a wall stacked with cardboard boxes. As he moves, he passes by scattered artifacts that collectively tell the story of his life.

      He removes the dusty lid from a white hat box filled with family photographs that have slept quietly for years beneath his grandmother's sewing machine. He reaches inside, removes some of the pictures and glances nostalgically at the assorted scenes from his past: his first Holy Communion; the sixth grade class trip to the Bronx Zoo; high school graduation. He opens his fist and lets the memories cascade back into the box.

      Across the way are more treasures: Madeline's wedding dress; the hand carved rocking horse his parents purchased from a tiny shop in upstate New York when he was just a baby; Grandma McCleary's wooden crib; the door jamb he did not know his mother saved, complete with pencil marks charting the growth of all three McCleary boys at various times in their lives. He can still hear the sound of their young, eager voices clamoring for the tape measure and pencil.

  "It's my turn mommy! Measure me! Measure me!"

      He finds other items that conjure much less pleasant recollections. In a milk crate next to a tiny plastic piano he uncovers a pair of sandals and a frayed poncho. The discovery takes him right back to the summer of his eighteenth year.

      It was a warm July night. He was drinking down at the beach with his friends. The smell of marijuana lingered in the air; many of them sat in a circle and shared their drugs and views on politics and war. Somewhere between the volleyball game and skinny dipping, he lost his car keys. It was of little consequence, he thought. He only lived about two miles away.

      When he arrived home, some of the stupor had lifted and he realized that he did not have a key to his house either. He tried the front window but it was sealed shut by countless coats of paint applied carelessly over the years.

"Shit!" he screamed in anger.

     He crossed the lawn, heading towards the window on the side of the house. But before he could get there, the front door swung open. It was his father. He was standing in the doorway, staring at him. He was looking him up and down, from the long, snarled hair that hung defiantly in his face to the brown sandals on his feet. John looked back at him, waiting to be admonished. He was ready for the confrontation. He wanted it. James just turned his back and walked upstairs.

      He remembers how two weeks later he moved out, left for college in California . His father barely said anything to him that afternoon too. The move has worked out well for him. It was there on campus he met his wife Michele and it was there he made friends with the son of the president of a German company that manufactures radios for distribution allover the world. He boasts to his brothers all the time about the benefits of working for a foreign company, including the many trips to Germany he has made and how proficient he has become in the language.

  "I'm an international man of intrigue," he always tells them with a smile.

       The attic is also filled with many things about which John knows nothing. Old black and white photographs of faces he has never seen; empty wine bottles, old greeting cards and other remnants of celebrations past; his father's army footlocker, a dusty green chest filled with military paraphernalia.  He looks quickly, having little interest in the war. He sorts through the shirts, pants, and boots. In addition to two canteens and some medallions, he finds a bunch of photographs lying inside a helmet and a field pack. The pictures depict his father and his friends. His father looks very different. He saves the pictures but tosses the pack aside.

       When he has seen enough, he crosses to another part of the attic and crouches in front of a rose colored shoe box with the initials M.A.B. printed neatly on the top. He opens the lid. There are many letters, tied together with a piece of red yarn. They are all addressed to his mother. He untangles the knot and opens the one on top. He reads.

      The first one is dated July 7th, 1944. It is begins with a description of the coastline in Normandy and details the hardships of the voyage over. It is written on American Red Cross stationery. The handwriting is impeccable, but some of what is been written has been blackened out. Still, there is enough to hold his interest.  

      The voice is one he does not recognize; it is human, warm and full of hope and love and fear and uncertainty. The words are so heartfelt and so compelling that he skips to the other side of the page to see who it is from. On the bottom of the wrinkled paper is his father's name.

      He repeats the process with each of the letters, only to discover the same thing. His knees, weak and tired from crouching, are bothering him. He sits on the dusty top of an old table, flips back to the first letter, and begins to read.