Attic

After Bonnie’s mom died,

someone had to go through the house,

collect the family photographs,

roll bubble wrap around 

limited-edition porcelain figurines,

throw away stained coffee mugs

with chipped lips and cracked handles,

laugh at the ancient record collection,

cry a bit over the ancient record collection,

pack up clothes for Goodwill,

sell stacks of paperback romance novels

with yellowed pages.

She did all these chores,

mostly alone.

Her two siblings lived out of state.

Her husband had to work,

and of course the kids had their

soccer tournaments and swim meets.

She didn’t mind, though.

It was hard, dusty work,

but it was quiet in her mother’s house,

and it still felt as though

her mother was just in the other room,

washing dishes or making coffee.

No one had been in the attic

in probably over 30 years.

The door was locked,

and the gaps around the door

were long ago sealed with silver duct tape.

Bonnie had a faint memory

of toddling on the dusty floor of that attic,

being surprised by an angry adult,

crying out as she was roughly picked up

and carried away.

She never stepped inside again.

But it would need to be cleaned out,

its contents sorted,

before she had the realtor over.

She found an unlabeled set of keys

in the kitchen junk drawer

and correctly guessed that the key

marked with a black “X” in electrical tape

would open the attic door.

When she shone her flashlight inside,

she found

to her relief

that the attic was almost empty.

Dusty, yes,

and it made her sneeze three times in a row,

but not cluttered,

no dead mice or bats resting in peace

on the wooden floor.

The single naked light bulb hanging above

even dimly illuminated the space

when she pulled on the cord.

There was just one large steamer trunk,

sitting in the middle of the walnut floor.

She retrieved bolt cutters

from her father’s old toolbox in the basement

and broke the lock off the trunk.

What was inside the darkness called to her

with a voice that was enticing and vaguely familiar.

A faint trace of music

she heard only once

years before.

She smiled with happy tears

shining in her eyes.

It's you,

after all this time.

Compelled to follow,

she stepped inside the trunk,

the lid closing after her,

and she was never seen again.