The Suitcase in the Attic

I found it in the attic,
tucked safely behind old boxes
in a dark corner.

Curious, I pull it out.
I don’t remember packing this one.

The soft leather is smooth under my touch,
carelessly stitched embroidered images
cluster across its surface:
childish scrawls and faded stickers
covering its old spine.

The latch resists at first,
as if it had been packed
to never be opened again,
left to be forgotten.

Inside, it is as cluttered as I expected,
yet brighter somehow,
more alive.

Empty candy wrappers still holding
the sweetness of the moments they came from.
Carnival tickets. Prize trinkets.
A name I used to say too easily,
pressed between folded summers,
and the shape of a laugh
I thought I had outgrown.

There were things I never threw away,
not because I kept them,
but because I forgot to let them go.

A ticket stub.
A crayon drawing of something
that might have been us.

And suddenly the attic isn’t quiet anymore,
it is full of a version of me
I hadn’t visited in years.

Carefully, I return everything;
folding memory into memory,
sealing sweetness behind leather again.

The latch clicks shut
like a promise I don’t quite trust.

Some suitcases are not meant for conveyor belts—
often, they collect dust
until even the memories inside
forget they are there.