Tidying (February 2026)

The attic is warm as the afternoon sun slants through the dusty window.
He stands still long enough 
for the past to settle around him.

Boxes are stacked by weight, not importance.
His handwriting, from previous decades, labelling the contents.

He carefully sorts through the inventory.

A broken watch.
An empty photo frame.
A plant that once grew toward him.

He places the trash into a bag 
as he organises.

He takes a pen that still works. Takes out his notebook.

Keep:
Winter coats,
Vinyl records,
Photo albums,
Tool box (incomplete)

The list calms him. 
It has margins.
It has order.
It asks nothing from him.

Satisfied, he caps the pen
and tucks the notebook away.

There is a woman in the attic.
She sits on a box, watching him
Until the sorting is complete.

She reaches her hand toward him,
and he takes it without thinking,
His left hand finding hers before consequence can enter the room.

His right hand lifts the trash bag, 
and together they move toward the door.

He stops.
The door does not open.

He looks at the place where his hand holds hers,
Feels the familiar warmth,
the ease of it.

He considers the handle.
He considers the bag.

Without urgency,
Without anger,
He sets down the bag, 
and reaches for a knife.

He removes his hand.

With what remains,
He gathers the bag.
His right hand is free to open the door.

He closes it behind him. Wraps his arm. Takes out the trash.

Later,
he finds a pen that still works,
and takes out his notebook.

On a clean page
He writes promises to himself,
that he might one day become worthy
of the things he throws away.

Tenille