Sweating in the thrush brown attic, ducking the roughly planed rafters, tiptoeing from joist to joist. I open boxes, feeling the pockets of every summer dress, every pair of pants. Slitting open envelopes and riffling the pages of every book. I peel curled, yellow tape, cut dry string. Digging, ripping, dumping piles of rotting clothes, shoes, fur coats onto flimsy floorboards.
Feathers swirl in the air, ancient cellophane disintegrates into yellow squares.
And, sometimes, you're still there. Still in the house. Staring into my eyes. As I haul two black garbage bags at a time through your kitchen, through your narrow doorways. Tangles of wire hangers poke through the flimsy bags and gouge long furrows into the wood work.