If my life were stored away in an attic...

Here's a peek inside the items that line my shelves. My life has been stored away in leftover attic space and the occasional turret of a dreamy castle. What's left, it's in pantries, giant white-washed pantries that are a chef's dream, a Martha Stewart's vision and a child's hide-and-seek playground. A rainbow of dried up fine point sharpies lie scattered on the floor; half of them are missing their caps. Jars of sticky strawberry jam and rotten tangerines. Mr. Ted, dust balls of golden hair and mounds of tissues that take on the essence of marshmallows and whipped clouds, globs of melted chocolate ice cream splash the walls and antique Nancy Drew books (the pages are lined in blue pen with notes and drawings and mysterious symbols), bullet cases, chalked-up hiking boots and dusty golf-hats with sweat-stained rims. Sparkly tubes of lip gloss that went un-used, cassette tapes of the oldies but goodies, summer splinters found in tiny fingers and barefoot toes from humid east coast days, trashbags of fresh cut grass and crunchy orange-red fall leaves not yet turned to dust, a witch costume in pristine condition, chipped beer glasses from Big Ass Beer Night, vases with wine corks spilling over the sides, faded photos curling at the edge of a smiling blond, seashells with smoothed ridges, fizzy lotions and sensual oils, satin pillows, pine cones that smell like new, a piano a bit out of tune.

What else?

A boogie board with sand caked to the edges (at what age did I become afraid of the deep ocean waters?), sugar scrubs with a rich vanilla-lavender scent, stacks of business cards with various titles and degrees of responsibility, foam popcorn that goes in packing boxes floats down like crunchy raindrops. Marketing books about ROI and email sit beside books of dreams and intuition and history and philosophy. A cake pan with greasy crumbs, oil paints in ochre and azure tubes, a faded Nike shirt with paint stains on it from the time we painted my room a pale yellow. A pink and white polka dot raincoat and matching umbrella, a New Kids on the Block bracelet, a trash bag of old flip flops and goodwill goodies, crinkled concert tickets, blankets, some soft and fuzzy and others with stains on them from outdoor concerts and late night wanders. A scrabble board and all of the shiny letters with spellings from the last game played, pico de gallo and guacamole mounds smell lime-fresh, a hookah with cherry-lemon smoke, tupperware lids and egg shells. Sunscreen (SPF 30), maps used once and then forever lost, travel guides with black ink notes in the margins. Old report cards that have seemingly lost their meaning, crusty art projects of construction paper and barely-there glitter. A navy blue sling, cracked ski goggles, povi crust that Walter hasn't found yet and Aldila golf tees.

And now, a shiny red beach cruiser to add to the mix.