What We Leave

The attic smells like dust and time,

which is to say it smells like nothing

and everything at once.

I'm here helping my brother move,

which means I'm looking for boxes,

which means I found the yearbook

with my name circled in a group photo,

the light from the small window

cutting across the page like a blade,

like the sun is trying to divide

what was never meant to be kept separate.

My face is barely visible in the group.

I was the kind of person who stood

slightly behind. Slightly to the side.

Even then, I was leaving.

I don't remember who circled my name.

I don't remember why they thought

I was worth marking.

The yearbook is from a decade ago,

which makes it a relic, which makes me

ancient, which makes the person

in the photograph someone I should

feel something about but don't.

I should feel nostalgic. I should feel

young and sad about youth being over.

I should feel something that justifies

keeping this thing in an attic,

wrapped in plastic, waiting to be found

by someone looking for boxes.

But I feel nothing. Or I feel something

I can't name. Something that lives

in the space between the slanted light

and the barely visible face, between

what was marked and what was forgotten.

I close the yearbook. I put it back.

I find the boxes. I help my brother move.

Later, I won't think about it.

And that will feel like the most honest

thing I've done in years.