Up here, in the old attic, it’s just me and his boxes.
"Dad's belongings,"
Easy to write, hard to touch. Each one feels like a mountain, heavy with everything he ever was. His clothes, his books, maybe an old watch I remember him wearing. It’s not just stuff; it’s pieces of him, packed away. The dust motes dancing in the light, they’re almost like tiny memories, floating around.
And the weight, God, the weight of all this remaining... it’s crushing, but I can't let it go. It's all I have left of his things.