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August 2, 2008
I love to go up to the attic alone, passing the doors to Friedaís and Marettaís apartments as quietly as I can. I donít want them to pop out and delay my visit to the wonders that await me at the top of the house: the wardrobes full of fragile, beautiful old ball gowns; the bed where my motherís cat Smoky slept thirty years before, untouched since his death; my great grandfatherís sleighbells; the trunk of souvenirs my grandmotherís brother acquired on his Grand Tour of Europe. No matter how many times I see these things, I am still enchanted.