Pull-String

I went up for a shipping box—

had a return to make.

The pull-string light came on.

I stood there for the sake

of standing, I suppose.

The boxes along the wall,

the smell of something sealed.

The usual sprawl

of labeled things:

tax returns, old clothes,

a printer already outdated

when it goes

up there—years ago.

Then: a box. The side

in someone else's handwriting.

Her name. The wide

looping letters of it.

A folder inside, her name

on the tab in her own hand.

I don't know why I came

to a stop like that.

Three years. The pull-string light

still swinging—I'd let go

a while back. I might

have opened the folder.

I didn't. I set it

back down. Found my box.

I quit

the attic.

Pulled the string.

Climbed down the ladder.

The whole thing

still up there.