Grandma's attic dust motes in the sun

Grandma's attic, dust motes in the sun,

a forgotten box, its long duty done.

I found it there, beneath a yellowed shawl,

pressed down by memories, standing tall.

This hymnal. Stiff cover, almost cracked,

the embossed cross, its gold thread nearly lacked.

I picked it up, a solid, heavy thing,

a concrete block where pious voices sing.

Its pages, thin and brittle, smelled of old,

of something hushed, of stories left untold.

A faint perfume, like lavender and sin,

clung to the binding, deep within.

It held the weight of Sunday, year on year,

of hopes and failings, held so very near.

My fingers traced a tune, half-forgotten, slow,

the words meant nothing now, but the heft, I know.

The sheer, undeniable, solid mass

of all that yearning, come to this, at last.