The attic smells like settled years

The attic smells like settled years,

like wood that hasn't seen the sun.

I came here to disappear,

to find something I could do alone.

My father's handwriting on the boxes—

neat, precise, dated 1997.

He's been dead for eight.

The labels are a list of what he knew mattered.

Dust moves through the dormer window,

long columns of it, suspended.

I watch it settle on the boxes

like it's been waiting just to land here.

My sister is downstairs.

My mother needs help with the basement.

I volunteered for the attic instead,

which everyone understood to mean

I couldn't handle the basement.

No one said it out loud.

I should sort these.

Keep, donate, trash.

Instead I sit on the floor

and let the dust settle on my shoulders

like he's still up here,

still organizing,

still doing what needs to be done.

The light through the dormer

starts to fade.

I haven't opened a single box.