When I was seven I remember my parents tucking me in at around 8:30. But it didn’t stay that way. I would shut my eyes and count to 700 before I shifted out from under the covers and quietly pattered across the old wooden floor. I then stepped up in to the attic and went into the far corner. For a seven year old, boy it was somewhat of a paradise. There had to be hundreds of old objects. Everything from graduation caps to old hats and files.
One cold day in December my routine changed as I started to get to a whole new layer of trunks. I had to crawl under a gap I had made in the vast stacks just to get there. One trunk stood out, as it was the only one that was labeled Great-Grandpa. Curious I opened it and folders literally sprung open out of the locked leather box.
My blue eyes flashed open wide. I started to stack everything according to date so it wouldn’t look any different. It was literally all his life’s work. I was too overwhelmed to even see what they all where. They were symbols. One looked really familiar and I looked down at my shoe it was the exact match. It was the famous swoosh. Yeah, Nike.