Thick, chocolate-colored hair pulled
back into a childish mess,
she dives headfirst into the attic’s
leather-smellng surf-
swims easily in Time while I stand,
nervous, on the shore.
Dreading this chore, I’m more afraid
than she of what we’ll find.
Maybe old photographs have
yellowed teeth, old letters fangs.
A sudden heartfelt fury, and her
diary’s ripped in half.
Unknowingly, she groans and turns
to seize a box of books.
That tricky skylight rattles.
The sun is fading fast.
We’ve traded house for gold,
for time, for glitzy chance-
our last?