Does it make me a psychopath to admit that the first thought to cross my mind upon hearing of my Nan's death was to explore the attic?

No grief.

No mourning.

No crying.

Just curiosity.

I certainly feel like a psychopath. I don't know why those feelings didn't creep in. I loved my Nan. She took me in from birth, raised me, guided me, she is the reason I am who I am and the reason that everyone who knows me feels the way they do about me. She made me.

I should be wailing in my bedroom. I should be stricken with grief. I should be sobbing myself dry. I feel like I should want to do all of those things. But, for some reason, I'm just curious.

Nan's attic has been a mystery for as long as I've been alive. Her greatest treasure, hidden away just above my head. I'd often lay awake as a child, I'd dream of gold coins, of bounty from lands afar, or of ancient treasures from deep below.

As a I grew older, I thought of photo albums, old and irreplaceable documents, of letters from those gone too soon. Items that were sentimental to me, much like my Mother's letter to me or a photo album of my family from long ago.

Now, here I stand, at the top of the ladder, unfeeling but wanting, looking into the darkness of the old attic.

The dusty lightbulb hung above my head, with the chain dangling lowly and softly by my head. Without looking, I reached my hand up and pulled. A dim, warm light filled the area around me. I could see the wooden support beams and nails sticking through the top, holding the roof tiles on. I could see the pink fiberglass insulation that caused childhood pain around the ground. There was the AC unit sitting on a plywood walkway, acting as the desire path of the land, just sturdy enough to support me.

I stood onto the plywood from the ladder. I had to bend over to avoid hitting my head on the roof. It was low, it was dank. I took a step forward toward the A/C unit and looked around. Just ahead, 5 or so steps, I could see the light reflecting back at me. It was another lightbulb.

I moved to it, keeping low, going around the A/C. I stood beside it and pulled. Another dim blast of light. I examined my surroundings once again, but saw nothing.

Then, at the back wall, another reflection. Another light?

No.

I stepped toward the reflection. Then stopped. Movement? My heart skipped a beat for a second, I waited and watched, but saw nothing else.

I took another step and again, movement from the back wall.

I took two more steps, still crouched when my shoulder tapped something. Dangling. Another lightbulb. Without thinking, I reached up and pulled.

The dim light of the three bulbs was enough to now illuminate the whole of this tiny attic. And there was nothing. Nothing but fiberglass, roof nails, lightbulbs, the A/C...

...and this mirror.

I saw myself in the mirror. My hair was disheveled and clothes wrinkled. My eyes looked dark and baggy and my face tired. If Nan saw me right now, I'd get an earful.

If Nan saw me right now, she'd be worried sick.

If Nan saw me right now, she'd take care of me against my wishes, her tender care.

If Nan saw me right now....

I don't know why now, I don't know why here, but seeing myself and thinking of Nan, it hit me.

Grief.

Mourning.

Tears. Heavy, endless, sad tears.

The mirror. Her greatest treasure. It's not the mirror, it's what's in the mirror.

My bum hit the plywood floor as my hands caught my falling head, dripping, soaked with sadness. I felt everything.

I miss my Nan. I love my Nan.