Daily life, bone, warehouse

attic storage

There was an attic warehouse in the house where I was born, learned to walk, and learned to play. Parents, who had been happy to feed their three siblings, filled a box of seasonal fruits in the attic warehouse every season so that they would never run out.

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When I played with my older brother and sister, I used to hide in secret. One winter night, he hid a box of tangerines next to him and ate dinner, starving to death, and forgot the tangerine again, but he was worried about who would go up to the attic warehouse even though he was sick or sick all night.

There was such an attic in the house where I moved in. When I first opened the attic, I was so moved that I felt so good… (I came to see the house and cried.) Now I wake up every morning, once again before I go to bed, and then I open the attic and close it for no reason.

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Now, I can’t find any sour, wooden boards, apple boxes used as firewalls, or grape boxes that were invincible when I folded the scab, but I can smell the fruit that was deeply breathless decades ago, and the silhouette of a five-year-old boy who kept pounding on his buttocks on high and steep stairs.

In the house you moved in, there is an attic warehouse.