The attic

I pull the door in the ceiling
down
and drop the stairs.
I climb them carefully.
I’ve always hated stairs
and steps
and the way they grab
my feet and scare me.
I pull the string
that lights the single bulb
that illuminates the attic.
It is surprisingly full
of boxes and dust.
I see a plastic Christmas tree,
long forgotten.
And Christmas lights
wrapped around a rafter.
I plug in the lights
and they twinkle
and add more light
in short cycles.
First I see the boxes
for computers and TVs
and stereos.
So many over the years
and never one thrown out.
I push them aside
and look deeper into the recesses
of the attic.
I find two boxes
that my ex left behind
years ago.
In one I find clothes
and a journal.
I hesitate,
but my curiosity wins
and I take it out of the box.
It is only a composition book
and time has not been kind.
I open it carefully.
It begins before we met
and ends shortly after.
The pages between
are filled with her thoughts
and hopes.
She is so sad
and struggles so much,
more than I ever imagined.
Her last entry is tortured.
She writes that she loves me,
but doesn’t believe it will last.
I close the journal
and return it to the box
with the clothes
she didn’t want.
The second box is full
of pictures we took together
and gifts I gave her
over the years.
I pick through the contents,
choosing a photo.
Here we are in New Orleans,
smiling on Bourbon Street.
In another we stand before this house
I bought for our future together.
There are books I gave her
for anniversaries and birthdays.
Art and design books mostly.
She was an artist.
There is a small ironwood Buddah
I bought her in Austin.
I close the boxes
and move them toward the stairs.
Of course, they were left
years ago,
but my eyes blur
and wet.
I wonder if I can call her
and decide against.
I look around the attic
and see more boxes
I haven’t the heart
to open.