Attic Runway

The attic was the final frontier.

No one had touched it since we moved in five years ago, and even back then, we just tossed boxes in and slammed the door shut. But on that sunny Saturday, with nothing but lemonade and ambition, Mom declared it was time.

“If it’s got dust on it, we clean it. If it’s broken, we toss it. And if it still fits...” she raised a brow, “we model it.”

That last part? Not a joke.

Armed with trash bags, microfiber cloths, and a Bluetooth speaker, we marched upstairs. The attic was hot and smelled like cardboard and forgotten summers. We cracked open the tiny window, turned the fan on high, and got to work.

It started like normal cleaning—stacking boxes, sneezing through cobwebs, arguing over which holiday decorations to keep. Then we opened a trunk marked “Old Clothes” and the real fun began.

Julian pulled out a lime green windbreaker that practically glowed. “Fashion,” he whispered dramatically, slipping it on. “Pure fashion.”

My sister found an old bridesmaid dress with puffy sleeves and twirled like she was on a soap opera. Mom pulled out a leather vest from the ‘90s and said, “This was my dangerous era.” I found a pair of gold platform heels that made me 5 inches taller and 10 times more dramatic.

The attic floor became our runway.

We lined up, queued a funky beat on the speaker, and strutted across the dusty rug like it was Paris Fashion Week. Grandpa judged us from a folding chair with a glass of sweet tea in hand. “Six out of ten,” he said, sipping loudly. “You’re no Beyoncé.”

We laughed so hard we cried.

In between walks, we cleaned. Sort of. We wiped down forgotten furniture, grouped up old toys for donation, and rescued a stack of old family cookbooks that smelled like cinnamon and time.

When we got tired, Auntie brought up snacks: deviled eggs, cold pasta salad, lemonade with frozen berries, and cucumber sandwiches that tasted like a picnic in a cloud. We sat on the floor in our mismatched outfits, legs stretched out, passing around paper plates and compliments.

“Look at us,” Mom said, raising her cup. “Serving looks and getting organized.”

What struck me most wasn’t the outfits or the mess—it was the ease. The way we accepted each other, bad fashion and all. No one cared how sweaty we were. No one judged the dust streaks on our cheeks or the fact that my cousin wore glitter leggings with cowboy boots. It was all love. All joy.

That attic wasn’t just cleaned. It was claimed.

By sunset, we’d made a dent in the chaos and found a few treasures to keep—an old photo album, a painting my uncle did in college, a weird ceramic turtle no one could identify but everyone wanted.

Before we turned out the light, we took a group photo in our fashion finds. Sweaty, smiling, fabulous.

I looked around at everyone—flawed, loud, brilliant, beautiful—and thought, This is the kind of day you don’t clean up after. You frame it.