Winnie Dust and Memories
WINNIE
Dust and Memories
Pawhuska, Oklahoma
"We must be prepared to release the life we envisioned in order to embrace the life that awaits us."
– Joseph Campbell
***
The attic was Pops' idea, which meant it was non-negotiable.
"Winnie girl," he’d said over breakfast, after Beau had already headed out to check on the horses (early, without me needing to drag him, which was becoming a disturbing trend).
"I need you to go through the attic today.
Been meanin' to clean it out for years, but never got around to it.
Got too much old stuff up there collectin' dust and takin' up space. "
I’d looked up from my eggs, immediately suspicious. Pops rarely cared about clutter. "What kinda stuff?"
"Old furniture, boxes... your Nana’s things I never had the heart to go through.
Just... memories." His voice had gone soft on that last word, the way it always did when he talked about Nana, a gentle reverence that made my own chest ache.
"Thought maybe it's time to sort through it.
Keep what matters, donate the rest. Make some room. "
Which is how I found myself standing at the bottom of the attic stairs at two in the afternoon, staring up at the pull-down ladder like it had personally insulted my ancestors.
I hated the attic. Not because it was creepy or haunted—though the floorboards did groan like dying whales—but because it was a time capsule of grief I wasn't ready to open. It was full of Nana’s life.
Her clothes, her books, the quilts she’d stitched by hand, all the little pieces of her that Pops couldn't bear to part with after she died.
Going up there felt like ripping a scab off a wound that had just barely healed over.
"Need help?"
I turned to find Beau leaning in the doorway, sweaty and dirt-streaked from whatever he’d been doing outside. His hair was plastered to his forehead under his cowboy hat, and his t-shirt was clinging in all the right—and wrong—places.
"Pops wants me to clean out the attic," I said, dodging his question because admitting I needed help felt like weakness. "Sort through old stuff."
"Want company?"
I almost said no. Almost told him I could handle it myself, that I didn't need a city boy interfering with something so personal. But the truth was, the thought of facing that silence alone felt suffocating. Heavy.
"Yeah, actually. That’d be good."
His eyebrows shot up in genuine surprise—probably because I rarely accepted help without a signed affidavit. But he didn't comment. He just pulled off his hat, wiped his forehead with his sleeve, and followed me up the creaky ladder into the stifling darkness above.
The attic was exactly as I remembered: cramped, sweltering, and packed floor-to-ceiling with the detritus of three generations. Afternoon light streamed through a small, grime-streaked window at the far end, illuminating dust motes that danced in the stagnant air like tiny ghosts.
"Jesus," Beau breathed, coughing lightly. "How much stuff is up here?"
"Decades worth. Pops and Nana never threw anything away if it had sentimental value. Or potential value. Or just... existed." I grabbed a box labeled Kitchen - 1985 and started toward the ladder. "We’re supposed to sort through everything. Keep what matters, donate the rest."
"That’s... vague criteria."
"Yep. Welcome to the Jameson filing system."
We developed a rhythm: I’d go through boxes, making snap judgments to keep from overthinking, and Beau would haul whatever I designated as "donate" down to the truck or pile "keep" items in the corner.
It was slow, hot, dirty work. Within twenty minutes, we were both covered in gray dust and sweating through our clothes.
"How is it hotter up here than outside?" Beau complained, pulling his shirt away from his chest and flapping it. "We’re literally being baked alive. I’m pretty sure I’m sous-vide-ing in my own sweat."
"It’s an attic in Oklahoma in June. What’d you expect? Central air and a mint on your pillow?"
"I expected reasonable temperatures! This is inhumane! This is a violation of basic human rights!"
"You can leave anytime, princess."
"And miss you getting all sentimental over old kitchen supplies? Never." He grinned, hauling another box effortlessly toward the ladder. "Besides, someone’s gotta make sure you don't keep everything out of guilt. I saw you eyeing that broken toaster."
He wasn't wrong. I’d already caught myself trying to justify keeping a vase that was cracked in three places because "Nana might’ve liked it."
We worked in relative silence for a while, the only sounds the scrape of cardboard and the rustle of old paper. Most of it was exactly what you’d expect: chipped dishes, clothes from the seventies that should’ve stayed buried, books with cracked spines that smelled like vanilla and age.
But then I opened a box labeled Family Photos - Misc. and my breath caught in my throat.
It was a treasure trove. Hundreds of loose photos, stacks of albums, spanning decades. Nana and Pops when they were young, looking impossibly happy and so in love it hurt to look at. Pictures of family gatherings, holidays, random Tuesday afternoons captured forever.
And near the bottom, a photo album with Summer Guests written on the spine in Nana’s neat, looping handwriting.
My hands trembled slightly as I pulled it out. I knew exactly what would be inside, but I wasn't ready for it.
"Find something?" Beau asked from across the attic, pausing with a lamp in his hands.
"Photo album," I said quietly. "From when your family used to visit."
He went still. "Yeah?"
I opened it, and the first page and brought a painful reaction to my chest.
There we were. Me and Beau, maybe seven or eight years old, standing in front of the barn.
I was grinning at the camera, missing my two front teeth, wearing overalls that were two sizes too big and boots that were two sizes too small.
And Beau—small, skinny Beau with his big blue eyes and messy blond hair—was looking at me instead of the camera.
His expression was soft, amazed, like I was the most interesting thing he’d ever seen.
"Oh my god," Beau said, moving to look over my shoulder, his breath warm against my ear. "Is that us?"
"Yeah." My voice came out rougher than intended. "Summer of 2013, I think. You were here for three weeks that year."
"I look like such a dweeb. Look at that haircut."
"You were a dweeb. You cried the first time you saw a cow."
"In my defense, it was a very large cow, and I was very small. It looked like a monster."
I turned the page, and there were more: us catching fireflies in mason jars, sitting on the porch eating popsicles that stained our mouths blue, me teaching him how to brush a horse while he looked terrified but determined.
Each photo was a time capsule, a reminder of summers that had felt endless and golden when we were kids.
"I forgot how much time we spent together," Beau said softly, and when I glanced at him, his expression had gone distant, wistful. "You were basically my entire summer. Every year."
"You followed me everywhere. I couldn't get rid of you. You were like a burr."
"You didn't try that hard."
He wasn't wrong. As annoying as kid-Beau had been—constantly asking questions, afraid of everything, completely useless at ranch work—I’d liked having him around. He’d made me feel important. Needed. Like I knew things that mattered.
I turned to the next page, and the pictures shifted. We were older here—ten, maybe? The photos showed us skipping stones at the creek, climbing the old oak tree, racing horses (well, walking horses because Pops wouldn't let us actually race).
"That creek," Beau said, pointing at one photo where we were both soaked to the bone. "Is that still there?"
"Yeah. Down past the south pasture. We haven't been down there in ages though."
"You taught me how to skip stones. I was terrible at it."
"You were terrible at everything."
"Rude but accurate."
I kept turning pages, watching us grow up in still frames. Eleven-year-old us building a structurally unsound fort out of hay bales. Twelve-year-old us looking awkward and gangly, limbs too long for our bodies.
And then the last photo in the album: Beau, me, Nana, and Pops, all standing on the porch.
It was late summer—I could tell by the golden light, by the way the crops looked in the background.
Nana had her arm around me, squeezing tight.
Pops had his hand on Beau’s shoulder. We were all smiling like we didn't know it would be the last time.
The last summer the Sterlings visited.
Three weeks later, Nana died. Heart attack, sudden and devastating. And the Sterlings—they just... stopped coming. No explanation, no gradual fade-out. Just silence.
I’d been twelve. Old enough to understand death, but young enough that losing Nana and losing the Sterlings in the same year had felt like the world ending twice.
"I remember this day," Beau said quietly, his finger hovering over the photo without touching it. "It was right before we left to go back to Dallas. Nana made us pose for this. Said she wanted to remember the summer."
"This was taken a week before she died."
His sharp intake of breath told me he’d done the math. "Shit. Winnie, I—"
"You didn't know. None of y'all knew. She seemed fine in this picture. She seemed fine until she wasn't."
I closed the album, suddenly needing to not look at those happy faces anymore. I set it carefully in the "keep" pile. Some things you couldn't donate or throw away, no matter how much they hurt to hold.
"We should've come back," Beau said after a long moment, his voice thick.
"After the funeral. We should've checked on you and Pops, should've.
.. something. Anything. Instead, we just disappeared, and that was shitty.
I was a kid, so I didn't understand it then, but now—as an adult looking back—that was really fucking shitty of us. "
"You were twelve."